Metamorphosis: Beyond Transformation
by Ha-Hee Prime
Summary: A series of Post-"Transformation" drabbles in which I try to find what happens to my beloved characters. Apocryphal. OP&M, OP/E1, M&SS, introduction of OC.
1. A Megatron Free Evening

**A/N:** I'm trying to find the follow-up to "Transformation;" looking for what happens next through telling a series of vignettes from various characters' points of view. I realize that if I start it like this, just posting each vignette as soon as it travels from my brain to my computer, there will be more than the usual element of chaos. But I can't help but feel that's exactly how it should be. I like the idea of a slowly-unfolding story coming together out of many different intersecting plots. They're all percolating in my head right now, and bursting to get out. I'm hoping that if I don't worry over them too much, that their birthing will be relatively painless. I do reserve the right to use or reference or rework material from these drabbles in later, more finished editions of the main story.

-For instance, this first bit is re-purposed in _Evolution_, the first "real" sequel. But I like it here on its own, too. I think it deserves to live this way too. Please be forgiving.

* * *

><p><em>Things you need to know:<em>

_Prime and Megatron have made a fraternal spark-bond and agreed to end the Great War. Elita and he are forging a careful friendship. Cybertron itself is greatly altered through a process I don't want to spoil here. 'Bots and 'Cons are rebuilding their planet and learning to get along with one another. (It's not easy.) Starscream is dead at Megatron's hand. Soundwave has also perished, as has Inferno and a few more third-string mechs. Vector Sigma is renewed, however, and new bots are now being created._

* * *

><p><strong>A Megatron-Free Evening<strong>

Orion Pax and Ariel sat on the roof of New Iacon's tallest tower, swinging their legs over its side. Of course, few bots knew them by those names; and out of those who did, fewer still dared to call them by those long-lost monikers. But tonight it was as if the passing of millions of Earth-years had left them somehow still unscathed, still reveling in dreams and plans and wishing on the brightest star.

...Or, as Optimus was doing now, wishing on the star just to the _left_ of the brightest celestial luminary. "Why give all the work to one lone star?" he winked to Elita-One.

The pink femme followed her bondmate's line of sight, till she found the star now carrying his wish. "I've been there," she remarked in sudden recollection. "Intarras-5 was uninhabited, and rich with iron and magnesium..." She settled against him. "That was in the early days, before we shut down all the space bridges. I wonder what it's like now..."

"Want to go back and find out?" Prime inquired.

"Not just yet," said Elita. She leaned in against his side, under the shelter of his arm. "I'm content right here, for now."

"I wonder if there's anyone out there looking back at us?" Prime mused.

Elita looked out at the slice of cosmos before them. "Someone on Praum might be. Or maybe on Chokoneon..."

"I wonder what they call their constellations?" Optimus stared up at the silvered sky, out at the tiny whorls of spiral galaxies, bright clouds of nebulae, and enigmatic swaths of dark matter. He felt unusually small. He curled up in the feeling, for it came to him so seldom. Orion liked to feel that he was just a tiny cog in some massive universal machine. Sometimes he wished he could have stayed an unknown, unexamined cog, instead of becoming a linchpin.

"There's the Chronarchitect," he said, pointing at a circle of bright stars almost directly above them.

"That's right. I'd almost forgotten," Elita murmured. It had been a few eons since either of them had given a thought to the old stories told and retold about half-imagined figures in the stars. "That's the Singer." She gestured to a ladder-like lineup of stars – a pattern that musicians used to say was a clue to the ultimate melody... if they could only decipher it.

"I like the Builder's Tools," said Prime, indicating a cluster of small stars that lay near the horizon. He snorted, suddenly. "We must have traveled a long way since I was first forged. Remember how the Square and Compass used to be so far apart? They're almost overlapping, now."

Elita sighed. "Yes, we have come a long way, Optimus." She reached up to her shoulder, and threaded her fingers through her bondmate's. Her gaze shifted from the spattered stars, down to the twinkling lights of the expanding city far below them. New-Iacon was still under construction. (There was hardly any place that wasn't.) _But someday,_ she thought, _We'll drop the prefix from the names, and newling mechs and femmes will think their planet's always been like this. _She pursed her lips. _I hope they take good care of it. We've worked hard to rebuild it for them._

Almost as if he knew her thoughts, Optimus gave her shoulders a quick squeeze. "Someday, all of this will be forgotten," he murmured. "Someday there will be no memory of all our wars, of all our follies, or even of us, my love. But I'd like to think that after we are gone, this mysterious planet of ours might become a star in its own right... It's nice to imagine some future being looking out into the night, and wishing on Cybertron..." He smiled, lost in reverie.

"I wonder if the wish would be granted?" Elita mused.

"I hope so," Prime replied. He ran a soft thumb down her cheek. "I hope so, dearest one."


	2. Sometimes I Hate This Job

**A/N:** I was totally channeling Chromie's Frenzy in the writing of Reflector. Not even gonna try to deny it.

* * *

><p><strong>Sometimes I Hate This Job<strong>

"So..." Megatron glanced down at his datapad, "Reflector."

Three nearly-identical gray, purple, and green transformers looked up at him in unison. "Yes?" said the one in the middle, the one with the round camera lens embedded in his chest.

It was a bit unnerving. Megatron had never quite known what to do with Reflector: three bots all powered by a single life-spark, who transformed into one combined alt-mode... A fragging _camera_. For a while, he'd tasked him – them – with surveillance. But Soundwave and his minions had proven themselves far superior to a simple camera in that regard; and as the Great War dragged on, Reflector had largely been left to his – to their – own devices.

Now, as the quartex lengthened into years and the Ceasefire still held, Megatron had at last worked his way down to the last few names he still had on his list of pending interviews. And here he'd found Reflector. The little trio sat before him now, as enigmatic as they – he – had always been, swinging their short legs on a bench too tall for them, and staring without speaking up at the Commander.

Megatron rolled his shoulders. "How are you settling in?" he asked. It was almost always his opening question.

Reflector shrugged his shoulders. In unison, of course. "Well enough, I suppose," the center bot replied. "I don't have much to do, but that's no different, really."

"Any problems with the Autobots?"

The center mech shook his head; and both the others followed. "They mostly don't notice me," he said.

"...And with the Decepticons?" probed Megatron. He always asked these questions; but he seldom felt so uncertain about how he would be answered.

"They mostly ignore me too." Reflector shrugged.

"Who are your friends?" asked Megatron.

Reflector shrugged again, in triplicate. He said nothing. His lack of real response was starting to get frustrating. Megatron was used to getting answers more along the lines of "What's it to you?" or "Who died and made you Prime?" But even being sworn at was preferable to this tripartite apathy.

"You must have some mechs you hang out with sometimes," he prodded, trying against his nature to be patient.

"I suppose I get along OK with Rumble and Frenzy." He looked off into the middle distance, at something over Megatron's right shoulder. "There never was much love lost between Soundwave's tapes and me, but we littler bots have always sort of stuck together..." His voice trailed off, as if he weren't quite present in the room. "Haven't seen either of them in quite a while, though..."

"Spend any time with the Autobot mini's?" prompted Megatron. "Or with Blaster's Cassettes?"

Reflector shrugged. "Why would I?"

"Because they're... small, like... Never mind." The gray Commander dropped his datapad onto his desk, and did not even bother to make sure that it was straight. "Assignments, then," he huffed. "Have you found any work you like?"

"Not really. I've been mostly bounced around from place to place, doing odd jobs here and there... It's not like I have a particularly useful alt-mode, and I'm not as strong as most bots. I end up getting underfoot most of the time, and told to leave. "

It was more words at once than Megatron expected. He decided to take this as a good sign, because otherwise he'd probably be putting his fist through this little soldier's faceplates in a nanosec or two.

"Is there anything you'd _like_ to do?" he asked.

Reflector shrugged.

Megatron excused himself, instead of throwing the three-fold bot out the window. _And Optimus would be so proud of me,_ he thought facetiously.

What could he do with this aggravating minion? The triple-pest was right: he had no vehicular alt-mode, so transport for him was limited to what he – what they – could carry in their arms. _At least __the little scrap can fly,_ thought Megatron. _But what in the Smelter do we need a slagging camera for?_

He pinged Shockwave. The purple, one-eyed mech hailed back on the first pulse. "What is it, Lord Megatron?"

The gray mech rolled his optics upward, appealing to whatever god might now be listening for the patience to deal with sycophants and weirdos. The one thing that could with certainty be said in Shockwave's praise was that the single-minded bot would always know where every resource was, and have a plan to use it. "What can we use Reflector for?" he asked.

"Reflector?" Shockwave's nasal vocals returned the name as a question. "Which one is he, my Lord?"

Megatron swore. He stamped. He imagined several ways of disassembling both his newly-chosen Second, and the little bot(s) back in his interviewing room. "The triple-minibots who transform into one fragging useless camera!" he yelled.

"Oh, _that _one..." Shockwave's weary recollection came through the comm as clearly as if he'd been standing in the room. Megatron could almost see the purple mech whacking his polygonal head against the business end of the cannon he had in the place of a left hand.

"Yes, that one! Well done," Megatron stormed. "We need to find something for him to do that keeps him engaged. Because the way this quartex has been going lately, if we don't, he'll probably incite a three-pronged revolution on his-" he swore; "On _their _own!"

Shockwave hemmed and hawed. Megatron plotted his mutilation.

"Could we use him in some sort of planetary identification program?" The purple lieutenant asked. "He could photograph each bot for his or her file in the global database..."

"Do you think I want them knowing that we have them all on file?" Megatron stormed sourly. "That's the most useless suggestion you've given me in vorns! And this from a bot who claims to be intelligent!"

Megatron halted his tirade, and forced himself to be calm. The last thing he needed – well, one of the last things; there were many – was for Shockwave to decide he was unfit for Command. "Thank you, Lieutenant," he said coldly. "I'll pursue other options at this time." He ground his dentals. "Megatron out."

A lilting laugh sounded incongruously from his workroom. "What in the Smelting Pool was that?" he asked the air around him. The air wisely said nothing. It did that a lot, he'd noticed. Megatron shook his head, and stalked back to his office.

"What's going on in here?" he demanded.

"Oh-" A black and purple femme rose hastily from the cheeky pose she'd struck for the benefit of the gray camera sitting on his desk. "Nothing, Sir. We were just having a little fun. I'm trying to get some stage-time down at The Hub from Spangle. But she's really big on what she calls 'stage presence,' so Reflector here was giving me some pointers..." The femme broke off, realizing she was babbling. "It's nothing. I'll just go."

"Wait up!" the little gray mech(s) called, sounding for all the world like newlings at the start of an exploratory outing. "Let me come with you! I've got some ideas for your advertizing campaign..."

Forgotten, Megatron watched them go. Unlike a certain snobbish Autobot, the Decepticon Commander was unused to becoming invisible. The sensation was a bit unsettling, and he wondered briefly if his powers might be failing.

But as he listened to the two excited voices echoing away down the metallic corridor, he felt a smile begin to tug at one corner of his mouth. His problem seemed to have been solved, and without any effort on his part. True, that meant it had also been settled in a manner that would not be under his control. But... He shrugged.

Yes, he'd shrugged just like that little pest Reflector.

But right now, he could not entirely bring himself to care.

Megatron turned back to his docket. "Who's next?" he asked the air.

"I believe I am," an invisible Mirage replied.


	3. Immortales Memoriae

**Immortales Memoriae **

_This is Shockwave calling Optimus Prime. Come in, Optimus Prime!_

As if his nasal, tightly wound-up vocals haven't given his identity away already. The purple Decepticon always talks as if the world is coming to an end. I sigh. _Yes, Shockwave; this is Prime. What is it?_

_Do you know the location of Lord Megatron?_

_He was on his way to Vos when I last saw him. His travel plans were covered in this morning's Captains' meeting,_ I remind him.

I resent this needless interruption. I'm deep in a shaft down to the planet's core, helping to build a new white-energon pipeline. And as always. we're running behind schedule.

_Yes, I remember._ Shockwave's exaggerated patience mirrors my own ill-masked irritation. _But he has not answered any of my hails for the last 3.5 breems. And I can no longer detect his locator pulse. He-_

_Has anyone else tried to hail him?_

_Yes. Skywarp and Sixshot and Prowl and Astrotrain and even- _

While he's still running down the list, I reach out through the bond. I feel my way down the static-muddled line between us, and feel nothing but a muffled black regret.

_I'm on my way, _I tell him. "Scoop, I'm afraid I'll need you and the others to carry on without me for a while. I'll ask Huffer to come take over the remainder of my shift." The yellow Autobot front-loader puffs a gout of black smoke from his stack, but otherwise keeps silent. I drop the load of pipes I've carried down here in my trailer, transform into my upright form, and ride the creaky elevator to the surface.

Vos is practically on the other side of the planet; so I take a shuttle. I'm so used to hoarding energon and counting every microliter I consume, that using even this little cloud-hopper for a personal trip still feels extravagant to me; almost prodigal. But I'm worried now. It's not like Megatron to ignore so many hails – even those from the sometimes ping-happy Shockwave. So I throttle forward, thankful for our new-formed homeworld's bounteous energy; and I make it to Vos in just under a joor.

I'm following the tenuous lead of the bond – nothing more than a hazy line of silver in my mind – and hoping it will guide me to my Brother. It's touch-and-go – since the start of the Great War Vos has been destroyed and partly rebuilt more than once; and in the Cataclysm fully half the city was destroyed. I watch my step.

I'm starting to grumble a little as I stumble between burnt-out husks of buildings, along debris-clogged streets, and carefully across a couple makeshift bridges over chasms that go deeper than I want to think about. I come to a third crack in the planet – one too wide for me to cross – and curse when I notice a thin line of climbing cable fastened with a grappling hook onto the side-beam of a nearby tower. "This had better not just be another of your temporary sulks, Brother," I mutter.

Because I refuse to carry him back up this thing after I finally find him (and because I'm not sure that the cord could carry both of us), I get my own grappling hook out of the worker's toolkit which I and most of the other bots of Cybertron now carry in our subspace, and attach it to a nearby pillar. Then, with a last exasperated look into the bottomless black breach, I swing over the side and start the long, long rappel down.

After what feels like an orn or two, my feet come to rest upon a jutting shelf of shorn-off metal; and I disconnect the climbing line. I'm hoping this is where my Brother stopped as well. There is a kind of tunnel cutting into the sheer wall here, something that looks like an abandoned hallway in a deeply-sunken building. Along its sides there are a few fresh streaks of bright-scraped metal showing through the dust and grime. As good a sign as any that the Mighty Megatron was here. Shaking my head, I hunch my shoulders in, and follow him.

It's going to take something like forever for us all to get our new-formed planet up and running again. Slag, there are still whole quadrants unexplored, since the Cataclysm made a tangle out of all of the old tunnels and throughways. But this place, where I'm hoping to find Megatron before it collapses on my head, is old. It's been buried underneath two siege's worth of rubble, and sliced open afterward; but nonetheless I know it. And I'm betting Megatron remembers it far better than I do.

I might have given up and left him here to sulk alone, had it not been for the beckoning scratches along the walls, the piles of debris flung aside, and underneath it all the throbbing certainty within my spark that all is not well with my Brother. I am compelled by our union, by my own code of ethics, and by the love I've come to have for the obnoxious slagger, to make certain that no harm comes to Megatron.

I find him, in the end, by the red glow of his optics. It is dim, but it is the brightest thing in here besides my own yellow running lights. He is sitting, all hunched over with his elbows on his knees, in an alcove at the end of a long hallway choked with scrap. I make my way toward him, and stop in the leaning doorway to observe.

"What happened?" I inquire.

He says nothing, not that I expected anything; but he does let one hand fall slack in front of him. And as it turns, I get a better view of what he's holding.

"Oh," I whisper.

I don't know how it managed to survive. It's old – dating from the last conflict between Vos and Tarn, at least. The city has been battered by civil war. The planet has been altered almost beyond recognition. But somehow, this small scrap of dented metal has remained.

It's vaguely triangular in shape, the once-white paint nearly all scraped off in the intervening vorns. There's just a hint of the red stripe that once ran along its top edge. And although right now he's musing over it like it's some forgotten memento – or perhaps a long-lost treasure – I know that it was more than likely Megatron who first tore this wing from its owner.

"I miss him," Megatron admits.

I sit down beside him then; and in the dark all of the words that he's been keeping tamped down in the darkest hollows of his spark finally force their way between the nodes of his gravelly vocoder. Starscream's name is almost never spoken between us, but he is always there, a hole that will never quite be filled. I only listen, for there's nothing more that I can do. Sometimes, I miss him too.


	4. And Scrawl These Words Upon Your Wall

**And Scrawl These Words Upon Your Wall**

"Does he think I'll let him get away with this?" Megatron stormed into Prime's office, and slammed a fist against the door control (it imploded with a whimpering fizzle of sparks). He threw his back against the sliding panel the instant it fell shut behind him, and swore. "When I find Swindle, I'll tear his neural cortex out through his optics, and you can't tell me he doesn't deserve it, Optimus!"

"What's going on?" The Prime was on his feet. "What do I need to know? Right now, in small words, Megatron."

"Skywarp just teleported into my office. Seems _somebody_ cleared out the entire store of 'Happy Juice.'" Again, he smashed his fist against the wall (it cracked the paint, and left a dent). "He got away with _all of it,_ Optimus. We've lost control-" He snapped his fingers, "Just like that."

Prime lunged toward the exit, pushing Megatron to one side. "What are we waiting for?" he asked. "Let's go. You can brief me on the wa-"

The door would not budge.

Prime looked at the broken control panel. His jaw worked. Carefully, he squared his shoulders. "We're locked in. Nice."

Megatron leveled his fusion cannon at the door, its chargers humming up to full. But Optimus pushed it down and shook his head. "We've got whole armies at our disposal. Two bots more or less won't make a lot of difference, even if those bots are me and you. So tell me everything. Was anybody hurt?"

Megatron did not answer for an instant. He was still glaring at the door. _"Hurt?"_ he scoffed, "Of course not. You think Swindle has the guts to pull off a frontal attack?" He sighed and hitched up his suspension, and his gaze dropped to the well-scuffed floor. "No, that little grease-stain got in underneath. Dug out one of the old tunnels. He was gone before any bot was the wiser."

"Who have you sent to track him?"

"I don't _have_ my good trackers, Optimus!" the gray mech shouted. "Soundwave committed suicide, and selfishly extended the favor to most of his personal army! I don't have Laserbeak. I don't have Ravage. I don't even have _Buzzsaw._ All I've got is one lousy slagging camera, and _he's_ off taking pictures of a pretty femme who caught his optical array! I've got Shockwave working on it, but he's only-"

Prime stopped him with a hand, and spoke quickly into his comm-link. "Blaster? We need Steeljaw down at the Detox-bunker ASAP. Tracking Swindle... Yes, again. But this time it's Priority-One. Got that?" There was an instant's pause. "Good. Prime out."

"It doesn't fragging _matter_ if we find him," the Decepticon grumbled, morosely.

Prime held up a finger, requesting silence; then he turned to stare into the glowing 3D datagrid before him. "Magnus," he barked into his comm-link, "You've got experience hunting Swindle, and know most of his worst tricks. He's taken all the Juice from the detox bunker. Yes, _all_ of it. Retrieval of the substance is priority, followed by his capture and containment." He nodded his head curtly. "Yes, you have permission. Whatever it takes. Prime out."

"You know that he won't have it on him if we catch him," Megatron persisted. "That Smelter-spawn has got a million secret channels. By this time tomorrow, I doubt that even _he_ could track it all down. In a few breems, the first empties will begin lining up in spare-part shops and back alleys to trade their vital fluids for a taste of the old kicker..."

Optimus wasn't listening. "Red Alert? We need optics on Swindle. Last seen at the Detox. He's taken all the stimulant reserves; and we need to stop him before they reach the black market. I don't need to tell you how urgent this is." Again, the quick nod. "Yes, I know you will. That's all for now. Prime out."

He let his arm fall to his side, and looked at the big gray Decepticon. It was unusual for Megatron to fall apart like this. But Prime knew that the memory of a certain highly unpleasant demonstration by Thundercracker was probably rattling his bond-brother's customary detachment.

"Who else can you send after him?" Prime kept the question crisp. "Would the rest of the Combaticons help you or hinder you in this?"

"I don't slagging know," huffed Megatron. "I wouldn't put it past Onslaught to have his finger in this pie." He slammed a fist against the steel-plate door behind him. "It's been two vorns, and we're still flying blind. Sometimes I even wish we hadn't lost the Matrix, despite the fact that most of the bots in there were psychopathic losers who had no more Wisdom than the average lamp-post..." He broke off, and choked back something gurgling and inarticulate. "Where the frag is Soundwave when I need him?" he demanded. "How am I supposed to operate with such a half-'grammed team of nitwits?"

Prime shrugged. "You'll make good soldiers of the ones you've got, just like you always have." He looked at Megatron. "Do you have any mechs who might have a special interest in seeing to it that the Juice stays locked up in the vault? Mechs you can trust to know better than to try to hoard some for themselves?"

Red optics flared. The gray Decepticon snapped open his comm-link. "Ramjet," he growled, "Remember Dirge?"

There was a burst of angry static.

"Good. Then go find Swindle, and make sure he doesn't hand off any _little packages_, because he's about to give us all the chance to sing a funeral tune. He's emptied out the Detox bunker. "

He listened, grim-faced, to the third-string flier's curse, and nodded. "Blast him to scrap, for all I care. But don't let that sick slag get onto the black market!" He listened a moment, and his hard-bitten features softened a micron. "Yes, I know you will. Megatron out."

He glared daggers at Prime. Then slowly, he slumped down to the floor, leaving long scratches on the door. "We're fragged," he declared glumly. "I'm sending in a nitwit to do a soldier's job."

Prime scrubbed at the back of his neck. "I don't know," he mused. "I was a nitwit once..."

"Only once?" retorted Megatron.

Prime smirked. "You know what I mean. Bots tend to rise to expectations." His features softened as he looked down at his Brother. "You ought to know about that, too..."

"Frag off," was Megatron's erudite response.

The gray mech hunched against the intransigent door, and wrapped his arms tightly around his knees. "I'm _trying_ to help them!" he barked. "I'm slagging-well doing my best! But I'm not slagging GOD! I can't fix everything!"

_Welcome to my world, _thought Optimus. He would never have said such a petty thing out loud, but his vocalizer must have clicked or something, because Megatron broke off and shouted, "_What_, Optimus? Did you have something _enlightening_ to say?"

"I wish I did," the Autobot replied. "Believe me."

Megatron sagged. "I wish you did, too," he said.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: Title is taken from _Notbroken,_ a song by the Goo Goo Dolls that fits so nicely into Prime and Megatron's relationship. Thank you, Johnny Rzeznik.

This was originally intended to be something _ entirely_ different... but it morphed completely. All that remains now is the title; which somehow, despite the change, still seemed to fit.

PrimeHugs to all my readers!


	5. Hello, My Name Is

**Hello, My Name is...**

"For the hundredth time-" said Megatron.

"The hundred-fifty-seventh time," corrected Prime.

"Frag off! For the hundred-fifty-seventh time, I don't want a replacement Soundwave!" hollered Megatron. "There isn't going to be another one!"

"I never said there was," replied Prime mildly.

"But _you're _the one who suggested she might have some of the same kind of... usefulness!" said the gray mech, pointing an accusing finger.

"I did," said Prime. "But I never said you had to take her on as a lieutenant. I never said you _had_ to do anything, in fact. But I do think you should meet her and make the decision for yourself."

"Get smelted, Optimus."

"Eventually," said Prime. "But not today." He glanced at Megatron. "At least, I hadn't planned on it..." He grinned, and bounded from the room.

"That slag-heap is a hundred-thousand vorns if he's a day," Megatron grumbled to himself. "You'd think by now he'd learn to act like it!"

* * *

><p><em>We're on our way,<em> commed Prime a few orns later. _Are you decent?_

Megatron commented at some length regarding the comparative 'decency' of himself and the Autobot Commander.

_Now, now,_ said Prime. _No swearing in front of the lady._

Megatron rolled his gaze up to the freedom of the sky, then downward in exasperated piety. "Do you glitches hear this?" he demanded in a stage whisper. "This is what I have to put up with every day. I hope you're happy!" He jerked his head aggressively. "And don't give me any guff about knowing what it feels like, because I don't fragging-well care what-"

He stopped as the door to his office opened with a swish.

"Who were you talking to?" asked Prime, looking around.

The Decepticon just glared at him.

"O...K," said Prime. "Right then. This is the applicant I was telling you about."

A relatively tall, but thinly-built femmebot stepped smartly out from behind Optimus. By habit, Megatron checked first the color of her optics, to see whether she was friend or foe. But they were yellow, not the simple red or blue.

He sighed. He still longed for the old days; things were simpler then. Lately, optics for the newlings came in every color of the spectrum. He'd admonished the creators time and time again to show restraint ("You don't have to cram all of your ideas into the first bot you construct!"), but it seemed no one was listening.

He inspected this new femme. At least she seemed to have been spared the worst excesses of giddy inventors. A simple, single alt-mode – vehicular rather than airborne, by the looks of things – and a blessed lack of flashy fins or calligraphic inlay on her plating. She was painted in shades of dark slate-blue, with flashes here and there of silver chrome and yellow-orange. There seemed to be a hint of iridescence in the enamel; but he supposed he could forgive her that. Though there was something odd about her feet... he wandered a few steps to one side, and – "Ah." A kind of built-in rocket-pack was mounted on her back, and secondary thrusters were installed behind her feet. Oh well. It might be handy, he supposed.

"What is your name?" he asked.

The thin femme squared her shoulders, raised a sculpted brow, and set her chin in what the old pit-fighter clearly recognized as belligerence. "My name is RainbowSparkle," she declared. And then she waited, watching.

"Is it?" said Megatron. "That's nice." He sounded bored.

"It's got a pleasant cadence to it," put in Prime.

"It does," agreed the gray mech, "Bit long, though. What do your friends call you?"

"They call me RainbowSparkle," she said, sidling along the wall to where she could watch both mechs equally.

"Do they. Well, RainbowSparkle, what is it that you do?"

She gave him a long look, the kind a scientist gives a new specimen of slimy, multi-legged creature. Then, "Red," she said. "Dark maroon-red, with swirls of blue in it. Indications: Desire for power is foremost, followed by-" she flashed the gray mech a look of some surprise, "A need for close companionship. Strengths: physical stamina, mental determination. Weaknesses: Easily provoked to anger, can be driven from logical course by that anger." She looked down, avoiding Megatron's astonished gaze.

"And mine?" Prime asked her gently.

"Blue," she said, without bothering to look. "A rich, dark blue; but mixed with ribbons of warmish-white and red. Indicates a gentle, caring disposition, but with a rooted strength of will. Positive aspects: kind, fun-loving. Negatives: a tendency to self-recrimination and depression of spirit in response to past mistakes. Unwillingness to let others take risks instead of self."

Prime huffed. "Sounds about right," he commented dryly.

"But Prime and I are easy," Megatron protested. "I bet that information's fairly common knowledge now. So much for privacy," he sniffed. "But what about a bot who's less well-known. Someone whose information can't be found on medical records. One of your fellow newlings, perhaps."

Optimus protested, "But that's- We can't ask anyone to bare-"

"You'll just have to trust me, then," said the blue femme, a little sharply.

"Hang on," said Prime. "Wait here. I'll be back in a couple kliks."

* * *

><p>The Decepticon mech and the newling femme stared at each other, warily. "So," said Megatron. "You're... RainbowSparkle. Forged two orbital cycles ago by..." He glanced down at a datapad, and tapped at it impatiently.<p>

"I'm one of Sunstreaker and Thundercracker's batch," she replied glumly.

"Oh?" He looked her up and down. "Well, those two have certainly begun to show some sense. Have you met some of their previous creations?"

"Yes," she said meaningly.

"I _know_," he agreed. "No sense of proportion. I had to talk them out of designing a femme with _four arms_ the other quartex. You're lucky you don't have six alt-modes and a flamethrower."

"_Thanks,"_ she said, and folded her arms across her chest.

Megatron shuffled a bit. This wasn't going well. He began re-tidying his desk, just to have something for his hands to do, something to take his optics off the strange femme standing there.

"I'm not... a lot of fun to work with," he admitted. "And although the legend may say different, neither is Optimus Prime. We're both old mechs, set in our ways. And ornery. And mean. Well, I'm mean, anyway," he amended. "But if you really can do what Op's says you can, then your abilities would be a great asset to us here. We need to be able to help our soldiers-" he broke off. "Our... fellow New Cybertronians, to find niches where they can be happy. And..." he sighed. "We need to know which ones to watch out for, which ones might not be trustworthy."

"That doesn't sound like such a great gig," she said flatly.

"No," said Megatron. "It doesn't."

"I didn't come here so that I could spy on all my friends," the slate-blue femme declared.

"I know," said Megatron.

"I came because Optimus Prime asked me to come."

"You trust him?"

"With a spark like that? Of course I do. Doesn't everyone?" she asked.

Megatron snorted. "Of course they do," he said.

"But not so many bots trust you," she said. It wasn't a question.

"No," he said. "I'm evil."

At this, the slim femme laughed.

"It's not funny," said Megatron. When she continued snickering, he slammed a fist down on his polished obsidian desk. It cracked. "It. _Isn't. Funny_," he repeated.

RainbowSparkle's vocalizer clicked. "You're right," she said. "I apologize, Lord Megatron."

He blinked. Few but the Decepticon old guard still called him that. "I..." He looked at her. "I'm sorry, too," he said.

* * *

><p>It was at this point that the door slid open, and admitted Optimus with a ragtag group of volunteers he'd gathered in a walk-through of Central Command. Megatron's optics widened as Grimlock shouldered his way in. "Here are our test subjects," said the Prime. Then, turning to the other mechs, he added, "Feel free to opt out if you wish. There's still no obligation."<p>

"Me Grimlock not care," said the big Dinobot. "Me curious." He turned to face the smaller femme. "Here," he barked. "Tell me about me spark."

RainbowSparkle slid back a step, but kept her concentration. She stared at broad Dinobot for a few nanokliks, then said with conviction, "Yellow."

"Really?" interrupted Prime, surprised.

"Yes," she said impatiently. "An older, darker yellow, like that of an ancient star, but yellow nonetheless. Think of the embers in a forge."

"I guess I could see that," said Prime. But he still looked a little startled.

"Core traits," continued the blue femme, "Unpredictability. A sense of mischief. Unwillingness to play by rules. And yes, a strong sense of fun."

"Yes," Grimlock rumbled. "That me all right."

"Strengths," went on the femme, "Undeviating pursuit of a goal. Weaknesses..." She looked up at him and grinned. "Same as the strengths."

"It one of those double-edged sword things," Grimlock commented.

"Right," said Prime. "Now... Do you mind?"

Without making a fuss, the heavy bot unlatched his armored chestplate, and opened his spark chamber. The others craned to see. Deep in the dark recesses of his frame, there burned, just as the femme had said, a smoldering orange-yellow glow. Tendrils of energy almost seemed to drip from it. It was an ancient thing, and heavy, somehow. But still, it glowed with something that resembled joy.

Optimus slapped the big Dinobot on the back, as he was closing up his chassis. "We'll have to have a chat sometime, old boy," he said. "It seems I have misjudged you all these years."

* * *

><p>Shockwave was next. He was always among the first to test and expand new technology; and viewed this as an opportunity not to be missed.<p>

"Purple," was the verdict from the femme.

"Really?" asked Megatron. "Are you actually that boring?"

The tall, purple mech gave him a slow, yellow-eyed look.

"There are some darker swirls, almost black," the femme put in, almost as if to defend the one-handed Decepticon.

"Hooray," said Megatron sardonically. "Anything else?"

"Indications: Pursues knowledge over all other activities; respects authority, unless he deems it misguided" (Megatron's brow lifted a fraction); Self-sufficient almost to a fault. Strengths: logical deduction. Weaknesses: Improvisation in unforeseen circumstances."

"Yes, yes, we knew all that," said Megatron impatiently. "Shockwave, would you care to demonstrate the lady's accuracy?"

Shockwave's spark was indeed purple, just as the blue femme had said.

Optimus met Megatron's gaze. "What did I tell you?" he whispered.

* * *

><p>Ironhide stepped forward. "Le'see if ya can make it three-for-three," he drawled.<p>

The femme of the improbable name peered at the hard-bitten red mech's flat chestplate. Her response this time was a bit longer in coming. "It's a hot red-orange," she replied carefully. "But there's another color, wrapped within..."

Ironhide's features softened. "Yeah. That'd be Chromia," he said gently.

"It's hard to see... But it... It looks a militant white," she said, squinting. "If such a thing is possible." She looked up at Ironhide. "I can't be entirely sure..."

"I think in this case, we only need to hear your impressions of my friend here," Optimus said gently. "We'll leave Chromia out of it, I think."

"Thanks, old man," said Ironhide.

"For starters, you should not be calling any bot 'old,'" said RainbowSparkle. "Your spark feels as ancient as the universe."

"I'm no older'n Optimus Prime, or Megs here," Ironhide protested.

Megatron shot him a dirty look. He hated the nickname.

"But Primus had all us first bots forged right about the same time," Ironhide persisted. "It ain't like I been around any longer'n these two twerps."

"But you feel older," she said.

"That I do," the red Autobot admitted. "It's a character flaw, I guess."

"Really? I was about to list it among your strengths," the femme protested.

"Well, it depends on where yer comin' from, I guess," said Ironhide.

"You're doing well," Optimus Prime put in, "But I think it's time to wrap things up, don't you think, er, RainbowSparkle?" He felt his friend had endured this strange examination long enough.

"Yes, of course," she said briskly. "Loyalty, dedication, bull-headedness, kindness, perception." That's Ironhide, in a nutshell."

Prime gave his bodyguard a nod, and Ironhide flipped open his chestplate. The orange-red of his spark glowed almost as heavily as Grimlock's had done.

"Thank you," said Prime. "Ironhide, Shockwave, Grimlock, you are dismissed with my sincerest thanks."

The trio of bots shuffled from the room. "Good luck!" called Ironhide as he left. "You've got a firecracker in your hands now, and no mistake!"

* * *

><p>Megatron collapsed into his chair, and looked up at the thin blue femme. "That was different," he declared.<p>

Optimus shook his head. "Life's one big never-ending surprise party!"

RainbowSparkle shifted her weight. "Am I done here?" she asked, rather more plaintively than she'd intended.

"I'm sorry, yes of course you can," said Prime. "Thank you for coming. For everything. I hope you don't feel like we've railroaded you into all this. It's just that, with your abilities..."

"I could be your little secret spy," she said, with not-quite-hidden tartness. "Megatron told me."

"It's not just that-" the gray mech protested. He had no idea how to say what he was feeling. "I- I'm just used to having someone who can tell me what the other bots around me are thinking. That's all." It sounded lame, and he knew it.

The blue femme peered at him again. "But you're evil," she said. "Why should I agree to work with you?"

"Because... Because I want you to," said Megatron, barely above a whisper.

She looked at him again. "All right," she said slowly. "On probation. I'll give it a try."

"Thanks little one," he said.

The blue femme quirked a brow up at the Autobot Commander.

"It's not an insult," Optimus assured her. Behind his hand, he added in a stage whisper, "The big lug's just soft on femmes."

"I am not!" huffed Megatron. "It was an accident, that's all."

"All right, all right," replied the femme, still wary. She looked from one mech to the other. "I'll be off."

"Right. See you tomorrow."

RainbowSparkle gathered herself together, and headed for the exit. But she stopped just as her finger pressed the button, and turned back.

"All of them," she told them.

"What?"

"All of them. My spark is all the colors of the spectrum. Hence the name. It seemed like such a good idea at the time."

Megatron grinned. "Fitting," he agreed. "I'm looking forward to working with you, 'Spark.'"

She paused in the doorway. "'Spark'," she repeated. She mused a nanoklik or two, then smiled. "I think that I could live with that."

* * *

><p>Later, when their shifts were finished and the two mechs had a few breems to refuel and wind down, they dropped onto adjacent stools at the long, black, semi-circular bar of the local Maccadam's. Prime ordered a large cube of 95-octane Regular, and Megatron a smaller cube of high-grade Unleaded with a long straw. They cupped their hands around their drinks, and savored the refreshing, warming fuel. Prime's cube was half-empty before he accidentally met Megatron's optics.<p>

"_Rainbow," _hissed one.

"_Sparkle," _whispered the other.

And then the two Commanders put their heads down on their arms and laughed until their vocalizers hiccuped.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** With many, many thanks to Terry Pratchet and all the wonderment he's given us over the years. I _so_ wanted to borrow the Cheery Littlebottom introduction from him, for this, my poor beleaguered femme OC.

FYI:  
>The morning after I wrote the first draft of this, Imaginary Megatron bounded into my room (I was still very groggy), scooped me (small m) up, and whirled around in badly-suppressed glee. <em>"I met a girl,"<em> he fairly squeebled. _"Don't tell Prime!"_

It makes no sense, but it was cuter than I can possibly describe. Hooray for Imaginary Robots in my head!


	6. Seeing Sparks

**A/N: **I found out after Chromia and I came up with names for the green and orange/purple femmes in Elita's G1 team, that they'd already been given monikers by Hasbro. But I like ours better. So I'm sticking with them.

Here, then, is the preamble to events in the previous chapter. It was just more fun to tell the story in this order.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Seeing Sparks<strong>_

* * *

><p><strong>Personal Diary: 02-435-Tarn<strong>

**-RainbowSparkle-**

I think I saw a brother today. At least, he must have been. No one but my progenitors could have come up with such a showy head-crest. But I was a bit surprised. I hadn't heard that Thundercracker and Sunstreaker were interested in making mechs.

I saw him as I was out walking in the market district with Sunspot, (my assigned mentor) and Arclight, who went through the Great War with her. The three of us often meet after our shifts to ramble through the city. There's always something new to discover, what with everything being rebuilt (or rediscovered) after the Cataclysm. I asked the girls if they knew his name and origin; but when I tried to point him out, he'd disappeared.

I'm curious, because Arclight and Sunspot also did not know of any newling mechs of that description. I'll have to find out more. Perhaps a visit to the Archives is in order. I haven't been there yet, but I suppose there's no time like the present.

(Sometimes it's hard being one of the newlings. I mean, all the older bots act like they know everything there is to know. They navigate the planet in a half-sleep, having done it so many times before. But I did have the last laugh once, when I heard that one of the mechs almost drove off of a cliff, because the city he was traveling through had been split by the Cataclysm.)

-End File Record-

Save/Delete ?

**Personal Diary: 04-435-Iacon**

**-RainbowSparkle-**

I met Optimus Prime today. He wasn't like I had expected.

I took a land-shuttle to Iacon, but then I had to locate the fuel and recharge post, because I'd forgotten to get all charged up before I left. Stupid. I've got to learn to time my actions better. I suppose this is yet another of those things they tell me will come naturally someday...

Anyway, after a few joors' recharge and a couple cubes of energon, I set off for the Hall of Records. Of course, I had to consult a map, which made me feel like an idiot. But Iacon was kind of intimidating after Tarn, where I feel relatively sure of where things are.

The city is old. You can tell by the way everyone walks – carefully, as if the place is holy ground, or something. The history of it kind of presses down on you. I felt so out of place. None of it had anything to do with me. But all the other bots I passed seemed to have the place's energy flowing through their very sparks. At least, the Autobots did. If I remember right, Iacon was their capitol, and their last refuge in the end. Perhaps I should have felt something – after all, I've heard that a lot of bots died trying to defend the place. But I just couldn't. Does that make me defective?

I finally found the Hall of Records. I'm not sure what I expected, but I don't think it was this. It was a low-slung, dumpy little place on the outside. But inside, and underground, it stretched for what seemed mega-miles. I didn't have a clue where to begin. So I approached a tall, red and blue mech who looked like he might work there, and asked for help.

(He was shelving datafiles! It wasn't my fault I was fooled!)

"Excuse me," I asked, "But I'm trying to find information on a relative?"

He turned around, and then of course I felt like a complete fool. I'd never seen him before, but even I know what Optimus Prime looks like. You can't hang out with Autobots, and avoid it. They think he's the greatest thing since refined steel. Instinctively, the way I always do when I feel cornered, I checked his spark. Then I relaxed a little bit. But not completely. I had just asked _the Prime_ to help me find an unimportant record, after all.

"I'm sorry," I floundered. "I didn't realize-"

He smiled, and put a hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry," he said gently, and I was startled at the way his voice sounded up close. It kind of rumbles up from the floor throughout your systems. But in a good way. "I know this place better than most," he offered. "What are you looking for?"

"Well-" The whole thing seemed to silly now. "A few orns ago, I saw this mech, and I thought he might be my brother..."

"Really?" He seemed genuinely interested, though at the time I had no idea why. "Why did you make such an assumption?"

"Well-" Now I was really wishing I had never come. "He had this-" I indicated with my hands "Flared-out decoration on his head, and he was head-and-shoulders taller than the other mechs around him, and I thought-" The Prime was gaping at me now, which only made me feel more foolish. "So far, every bot I've met with crazy tooling like that was designed by my creators..." I let my voice fade out to nothing. I'm taller than some of the femmes, but beside Optimus Prime I felt tiny and insignificant.

"Was this in Tarn?" he asked. "Three orns ago?"

"Yes," I replied miserably. "How did you know?"

He seemed to sense my discomfort, and tried to put me at my ease, but there was something tugging at the corner of his mouth, like he was trying not to laugh, and I could only assume it was at me. "I think I know the mech you mean," he said, stifling a grin. "I'll show you where to access his files. Come on, little one."

What could I do? I trailed along after him, feeling very little indeed.

He stopped beside an access podium, and plugged in with a thin cord from his wrist. "Is this the mech you wanted to find out about?" he asked, after tapping a few keys.

I looked. And if I could, I would have disappeared right then and there. "Oh," I said in a very small voice. "I didn't know."

**Megatron,** (the file beneath his picture read)

**High Protector of New Cybertron**

**Bond-Brother to Optimus Prime**

(And then there were pages and pages of historical information on the mech I'd thought to be a newling brother, ending with,)

**Forged by the Thirteen in the First Great Creation**

I looked up into Optimus Prime's face. His blue optics twinkled with amusement. I got mad. "Well," I said, "I am properly humiliated. Thank you very much."

"Wait," he said, looking crestfallen. "I did not mean to embarrass you. Truly, I did not. It's just- I've never met anyone before who genuinely did not know what Megatron looks like. It's very... refreshing.

"But you should know better!" I protested. "Especially with that spark. You _love_ taking care of beings – any and all – who are smaller or weaker than you. It's part of who you are. You should not have made an exception just for you own-"

He held up a hand. And there's something about Optimus Prime, some element of innate command, that stops you in your tracks if he wants it to. I fell silent with a click of my overcharged vocoder.

"What do you mean, 'with a spark like that'?" he asked, all serious now.

I shrank a little, but I was still mad. After all, I'd been right. "Your spark," I repeated glumly. "It's all about service to others and kindness and blue, blue, blue, blue, _blue! _All blue sparks look outward, for good or ill. At least, in my experience." I put my hands on my hips and stared him down, belligerent to the end.

"But where did you find that out?" he asked, perplexed (and if I am any judge, even a little scared). "You still don't know how to access files in the Archives!" He gave me a shrewd look. "Or was that all an act?"

"Thanks for reminding me that I'm still just a newling without a clue. Thank you very much," I said acidly. "No, this is not an act, although I wish it was. I wish I didn't have to stumble around and be laughed at by all the older bots, who seem to find it funny that I don't know anything. I wish I didn't have to tag along with minders, and ask questions about everyday objects while they smile behind their hands. I wish that I was more than someone's little science project. But no. There'll always be a difference between newlings and the more 'historic' bots. I put as much venom into that adjective as I dared.

Optimus Prime took all this in without flinching, almost without really listening. He put both hands on my shoulders, and leaned down. "But where did you find out about my spark?"

I could see that it was important to him, but I had no idea why. "It's right there to see! Isn't it obvious to everyone?" I asked, feeling confused by his demeanor.

"No," he said. "No." And then he turned away. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and seemed to consciously still himself. "So, you can see my spark."

"Yes."

"Just my looking at me."

"Yes! Why is this such a big deal?"

He sighed. "You possess a unique talent, er...?" He he shot a questioning glance at me. "What is your name, by the way?"

I squared my shoulders. "RainbowSparkle," I told him. I waited for the usual laughter.

But I guess he was too distracted to laugh. "I have never met anyone who can... see sparks," he said, still as if he was only feeling his way forward.

Then something shifted, and he turned back to me, decided. "Would you like to meet this so-called brother of yours?" he asked.

And to think I'd almost gotten over my angry humiliation. "What? So Megatron can laugh at me as well?"

"No, little one," he said. "So that you can impress us. In fact, there might be a place in the command structure for a femme with your ability. We could use you," he repeated, when I cocked a disbelieving eyebrow.

"All right," I said, after a pause. "But tell me this first. What's with the 'little one'?"

He put an arm around my shoulders. "I guess I'm just soft on femmes," he said, smiling. "You'll find that most of us old mechs are. There were so few of you for so... so long." He got that sad look, the one that always precedes long, depressing stories of the Great War. So I thanked him as hastily as I dared, and turned to go.

"Tomorrow, then?" His words followed me before I could escape. "Can you be at the Command Complex in Pax Cybertronia by then?

My shoulders slumped. I sighed. "I could be, if I knew where the slag it was," I mumbled. Even newlings pick up swear words.

He came back up behind me. "Would you do me the honor of accompanying me now?" he asked, using the formal language of Old Cybertron. He held out an arm.

I thought it over for a moment. I glanced back into his blue spark. I shrugged. "Sure," I said.

-End File Record-

Save/Delete ?


	7. Caught Again

**A/N:** Sorry if this squicks anyone; but it's the only thing that works when Megatron has one of his "Little Moments." (Trust me on this.) There's still no hanky-panky.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Caught 2.0<strong>_

* * *

><p><strong>Personal Diary: 211-0005-Pax Cybertronia<strong>

**-RainbowSparkle-**

I rushed into Megatron's quarters, grateful for the pass-code I had recently been given. "What is it?" I asked, frightened. "The alarms went off!"

"Get Prime," was all he said. I could barely hear the words.

"But- What's happening?" I almost shrieked.

He leveled that big black fusion cannon of his straight at my chest, and I huddled into a corner.

"Get. Prime," he snarled, "Before I _kill_ you."

I should have run. To this day, I don't know why I didn't. For that matter, I don't know where I got the courage to send an unsolicited comm to one of the Commanders. Usually, I have to spend a few moments psyching myself up before I can do that. But from my little corner, I spoke into my comm-link. "Optimus Prime?" My clipped voice sounded strange in my audials. "This is 'Spark. There's an emergency in Megatron's quarters. We need you now."

To his credit, he appeared less than a klik later. Lucky for me, I guess, he was in the same building. He skidded through the door, and looked straight at Megatron. I didn't think he knew I was still there.

"Is it-?" he asked shortly.

"Yes." Megatron's voice sounded pinched, pained. Then he launched into a stream of profanity that would have bleached the nodes of my audials, if such a thing were possible. I certainly got an education that night. I didn't know most of those things were even possible. I think that Megatron had forgotten about me, because he's usually more careful of his language when I'm there. But thinking back on it, I'm fairly sure that he no longer knew that I existed.

Prime listened, letting the words roll off of him like oil. I could only see his back, but I imagined he had that compassionate look on his face. He's a good listener, when he has the time.

"Finished?" he asked, when the tirade slowed to a panting silence.

Megatron's vocoder clicked. I think he'd shorted it somehow. (With those fiery words, I'm not surprised.)

"All right then," Optimus Prime said. "May I sit down?"

Megatron gestured to the open space of bunk beside him.

Prime sat. "Thank you, Brother," he said quietly.

And then he reached out and wrapped Megatron in his arms. I heard his low voice rise and fall in tuneless humming – a song I did not know. I felt awkward. Surely, such intimacy was not meant to be seen by foreign optics. I glanced at the door. But to reach it, I would have had to cross both mechs' eyelines, and that would have been infinitely worse than remaining in hiding. So I hid in my dark corner, trying not to make a sound.

Optimus Prime was muttering now, half-muffled, personal endearments that I would have died rather than find out I had spoken them in front of a stranger. I wished that I was anywhere but here. I wished that I was brave enough to flee. But the sounds caught at my spark, and I stayed. They were so achingly honest.

I looked away when Prime laid Megatron back on the berth. I didn't want to see, to know. But my traitorous optics kept sneaking back. I saw how Optimus Prime spread himself over the Decepticon Commander, locking his feet in beside Megatron's, stretching out his arms over his bond-brother's, and lacing their fingers together. With his head tucked in next to the gray mech's silent one, he still whispered over and over the same loving encouragements he'd been repeating for the last several breems. "You're not alone," he kept saying. "I'm here with you, my Brother."

I wished I was dead.

I'd just made up my mind that I would try to make it out the door – I was even sidling along the wall toward it, when a voice in my private comm stopped me cold.

_When he trusts you enough,_ came the steady voice of Optimus Prime,_ This is what you'll need to do for him._

_I didn't mean to spy! _I blurted silently over the comm. _I couldn't get away!_

_But you'd have left long ago, if you didn't care for him,_ the voice went on, unflinching.

I scrambled for a mote of reason. _But he __hates__ to be touched!_ I squeaked.

_Only because he craves it,_ replied the Prime.

I floundered. _But I'm not- We're not- There's no-! _I gave up. This was more than I knew how to deal with.

_I know, little one. _Prime's voice was as calm as the sky. _You see nothing yet. But there are many things you do not see. And... _I actually saw his frame go limp. _I must see to it that he has someone to turn to, if I do not last the time._

_What do you mean by that? _In my discomfort, I almost spoke aloud.

_Nothing, 'Spark, _he said. He turned away, back to his bond-brother. _You may go now, if you wish._ He sounded sad. _He doesn't know that you've been here._

-End File Record-

Save/Delete ?


	8. Calling Home

**A/N:** Was totally planning to write something else, but this came out instead. It is imperfect, but still I'm kinda partial to it. Megs still has many things to learn. Silly, precious mechs! I love them so...

* * *

><p><strong>Calling Home<strong>

_**First Vorn:**_

A nearly empty cube of high-grade sloshed, half-forgotten in the Decepticon's dull black fingers. His shuffling foot caught on an ill-laid paving sheet, and he cursed as he flailed for balance. His warrior's poise was definitely lacking on this night. But other, less apparent things, were paining him much more acutely with their absence.

"_Starscream!"_ He grumbled at the sky. "Where have you gone, you lube-sucking little dipstick? Don't pretend you can forget me!"

He stumbled to a stop, and let his head fall loosely back on its suspension. He gazed with bleary vision up into the clouds of stars. Somewhere out there, they said, there was a place where all sparks would return to the One Source from whence they'd come. All one. One Allspark. All together, turning and turning forever.

"Boring!" declared Megatron. "'S boring, isn't it?" he called. "You know you're never satisfied. Not even with sat- sati- satiety. There's no one you can challenge, out there in your happy little world. 'S'all... 'S all just sweetness and light!" he cried. "You're gonna miss me! You're gonna come back!"

His heavy head dropped forward, and he slumped onto his hands and knees. "You've got to come back," he whispered. "It's no... no fun without you."

"All right, old man," said Prime kindly, as he rounded the corner. "It's time to sleep it off. We've got a busy day tomorrow. Elita's coming home with the ambassador from Earth, and the expedition force should be reaching the core of our own planet by mid-day, if all goes well." He huffed a little, tugging. "On your feet, now..."

Megatron mumbled some inaudible curses, but did not put up a fight as Prime half-dragged him to his berth. After all, it was in his dreams that the unspeakable traitor had once appeared to him...

"Come back," he pleaded.

"What was that?" asked Prime.

"I want him to come home," the gray mech whispered. Then his head thunked hard against the metal platform of his bunk, and he said not another word.

The light in Optimus's optics dimmed as he looked down upon the sleeping mech. "I don't know if he can, Brother." The old sorrow made the words come heavy. "I'm not sure even if he would."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Second Vorn:<strong>_

"Come home!" called Megatron across the stars. "I wasn't finished with you yet!"

"That's why I'm staying far away," the voice inside his dream replied. "I'd like to keep my plating dent-free, thank you."

"Wait!" Megatron strained to reach out to the voice. It left him hanging in the dark, alone.

"That isn't what I meant," he whispered, shivering in endless blackness.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Third Vorn:<strong>_

Before he knew what he was doing, Megatron had scrambled from his berth, vaulted across the little room, and flung his arms around the red and white mech standing there.

"I _missed_ you!" he exclaimed. And then he realized what he'd said. What he had done.

From somewhere muffled against his shoulder, Starscream laughed. "Couldn't manage without me, eh 'Lord' Megatron? You know, I always said-"

"I perfectly remember what you always said; and it's just as annoying now as it was then. But frag it _all...!"_ He pulled his arms, if possible, even more tightly around the Seeker's frame. "Slag it, Starscream, I don't care if this _is_ only a dream. How are you? What's it like there in the Well of All Sparks? What do you do there? Do you think you'll ever be reborn? Are you still _you?"_

"The answer to that last one should be obvious," Starscream replied sardonically. He hitched a shoulder. "I'm supposed to let me spark rejoin the One, but I just haven't yet. I... kind of get a kick out of watching you all down here." He bent back his head and grinned that old lopsided smirk. "You're all fools, by the way."

"Takes one to know one," Megatron replied, his happiness undimmed.

"You know,'Great Leader,'" Starscream said, beginning now to squirm, "When I allowed you to see me, I didn't realize that you'd try to weld me onto your own body..."

"I'm not letting you go again," said Megatron. "You're mine. The Allspark cannot have you back."

"You know that sounds really creepy and psychotic, right?" asked Starscream.

"I'm Megatron! I'm _supposed_ to be psychotic!" the big gray bot exulted.

"...Riiiiight..." Starscream let out the longsuffering sigh of a saint. "Remind me why I came back here again?"

"_Because I wanted you to come back! I missed your obnoxious face!"_ said Megatron, as if that explained everything.

Starscream shrugged. He guessed it did, at that.

"You're blocking all my forward vents," the red Seeker remarked. Offhand, he added, "I'll explode from overheating."

"You explode just from your own internal glitches," said Megatron "At least once or twice a day," he added fondly.

"Slagger."

"Glitch-mouse."

"Smelter-loving waste-bucket."

"Spawn of Unicron and some errant fly-wheel, with just a dash of acid on the side."

"Pathetic overlord who pretends to be evil, but is really just a glob of wibbling mush inside."

They grinned. "Sounds about right," said one.

"That's me!" agreed the other.

"So. You having fun?" they both asked exactly at the same time, and with nearly the same dry-humored inflection.

Starscream laughed. "I guess so," he replied. "I want to bash your fool head in every few breems or so, but then, what else is new?"

Megatron snorted. "I am doing _very important things_, I'll have you know."

"Yeah," chuffed Starscream. "Because trying to decide if you just 'like' that newling RainbowSparkle, or if you, you know, _like_ her is really important stuff. And so is stumbling around half-blind on cheap high-grade, yelling insults to your dead Second. You can let go of me now," he reminded his Leader in a somewhat peevish tone.

Megatron shook his head, his mouth turned down in what on any other mech would have been called a pout. "Nope," he declared. "Don't want to let you run away."

Starscream lifted his gaze to his beloved sky – so far away and out of reach. "You know," he said with exasperated patience, "It's not the best incentive for me to come back and visit, if you're just going to smother me."

"Can't let you go again," said Megatron, in a much smaller voice. "I won't."

The Seeker patted his Commander on the back. "Still the same old, same old?" he murmured, but with empathy. He shook his head. "All right then. Better luck next time."

Starscream then did something – Megatron couldn't quite see what it was – and suddenly the Decepticon Commander slumped back onto his berth. He shook his muzzy head, but there was no fighting this overwhelming tiredness.

"Won't... let you go...!" he repeated. Helpless, he fell onto his back, with Starscream still clutched close against him. "Won't let..." With a last effort, Megatron hooked his legs around his Lieutenant's, and subsided into stasis.

* * *

><p>Starscream unlatched the now-limp limbs, and scrambled free. He stretched his arms, and popped a few small joints back into place. Then he turned back to the sprawled form on the recharge bunk.<p>

He straightened the old mech's bulky frame. He made sure that the knees were straight, the feet aligned, the head majestic in repose. Lastly, he folded the black hands together on the flat gray chest.

He looked at Megatron a while, then rubbed a pale blue thumb along one chiseled cheekplate's edge. "You have to let me go," he whispered, bending close to the insensible mech's audial. "But if you do, then I can come back to see you again. Perhaps for..." He looked out at the darkening sky as if to question it. A few stars beckoned, flickering. "Perhaps for good," he finished. "Perhaps not. I'm still figuring all this out."

He bent, and touched his brow to Megatron's unfeeling one. "Until next time, oh Mighty Megatron..."


	9. Bits & Pieces

**A/N: **It's all too easy for this story to devolve into All-Megatron, All-The-Time. He is by far the most attention-grabbing bot.

But I am not so good with writing Prime. The guy is an enigma - he's so practiced at keepin' on keepin' on that he sometimes doesn't notice that he's broken. He is the centerpoint, Polaris, the one unchanging being in all this. So I forget about him sometimes - just as he does. I forget to address fundamental things like what it means that the Matrix of Leadership is no more.

Optimus Prime: he is a busy bot. Too busy to take time to heal. Too busy taking care of others to take care of his own self.

And this is why he needs Elita.

**Bits & Pieces**

Optimus Prime –

He stands there, all majestic, ready and able to lead our people to greatness. And we all follow him unquestioning, because he is our Prime.

He's proven over and again that that he would die for any one of us. That he knows us, cares for us, will do what it takes to meet our needs... if needs be, at the expense of his own. He loves us, if I may use so archaic a word. And we can't help but love him in our turn.

So what, if our Creator is no more? So what, if our home is a molten lump of steel? So what, if our oracle is gone? Optimus Prime will lead us, safely, in this time of dying gods and changing planets. He'll lead us safely through the storm, into a glorious future.

"All is not lost," he says. "We will survive. We will rebuild." But I know. I know that it's himself he's trying hardest to convince.

We trust him with our future. I trust him with my soul. But as I look up now at the tall mech who stands on our poor vessel's bridge – as I watch him directing captains of hundreds and of fifties in the rationing of energy and shelter – I see not the Autobot Commander, not the soldier, not the beacon of our time.

I see the bot he was when we first met: a smaller, slighter, simpler mech. A student of the past who used to scan old datatracks even while he was loading crates down at the docks with me. An awkward, private bot with no notion of how the real world worked. A neophyte still awed by femmes, uncertain how to ask if I would meet him for refueling after shift.

I look at him, and see the untried newling asked to do a soldier's job – a leader's job – slag-damned _hero's_ job: Orion Pax, who rose to the occasion, gave up all that he had been (the safe cushion of anonymity) and became someone else, someone we needed him to be: became the Prime.

I see a mech who's lost his Matrix and his Maker in one blow.

Every so often, he hunches in his shoulders just a bit – a little gesture unnoticed by almost everyone but me. But I see, and I know what the gesture means. I know what he is feeling when he rubs a knuckled thumb against his chest, as if to scratch an itch or plug a hole that never can be filled.

I want to reach out to him, hold him, comfort him as I used to. I want to hide him from the darkness. For we all are in the dark now. But he's pointing out the pattern of our next few quartex spent without a home. He's reassuring us that we've prepared for this, doing his best to give hope to all of us refugees. He's serving as our beacon, our linchpin; and he has no time for comfort.

For an instant, I remember how we used to go crawling through old tunnels, and come out, giggling, into whole new sectors with our servos gummed with garbage and out optics smeared with dust. Things were so simple then; the dark so much more friendly.

He accepted this burden, half-unwillingly, so long ago. He fought to give us freedom, and then gave his soul for peace. He's given us his all. And now his god is dead, his guiding oracle destroyed. I know my bondmate. I know my Orion. And underneath the mask he wears no longer, he is huddled in the dark, lost and forgotten and alone.

At least, he'll think he is alone. I mean, scrap, we're all alone. But I believe in him. I believe in Orion. I love him with my whole heart.

And as long as I'm online, he's not fragging gonna be alone!


	10. Elita Alone

**Elita Alone**

I asked to have this job. I simply couldn't stand the clamor of a couple thousand bots who had no idea what to do with themselves. It's sad but true – I've never gotten over those four million years of being on my own. I'm used to it. And truth be told, I like it. I don't need to fit my methods into anybody else's plans. I do the job I'm given as I see fit to complete it; and I guard my own skidplate, if things go to scrap as they so often do.

My spark has never really healed from the knife-wound of losing all those Autobots on Cybertron while Prime and Megatron were knocked offline on Earth. It is relief – release – not to have any other's life depending on my judgement.

Well, perhaps Prime's does. I know. I'll do my best to keep his bondmate safe, eh?

I'm sure he wishes we were still bolted together as we used to be. He does much better when I'm by his side. But after a few quartex of being fawned over by every passing mech, of being slavishly emulated by the newling femmes, I yearn for some escape. And that is why I'm out here now, between the far-flung stars, in a single-passenger starship that's built light for speed and stealth. I am alone; and although it probably pains Orion to hear me say it, I like it out here.

It's not that the idea of 'home' is not important to me. I just care for Cybertron and for our people in different ways than Optimus or even Megatron do. They focus on the healthy function of the homefront. I'm out here making certain that the homefront has as many layers of protection as possible.

We traveled aimlessly through space for evorns, before Shockwave set us into orbit around a fairly young star. Our habit – Megatron's, at any rate – was not to worry much about our nearest neighbors, other than to wonder whether they ought to be exploited, subjugated, or simply extinguished. But if we're going to be here for a while, I want to know what's out here, what surrounds our small, precarious home-world. For I know, better than most, that we're not as invulnerable as we may seem.

So I'm simply exploring. I scan for life, for resources, for each star's stability (a solar flare in the next system will wreak havoc with your relays – not to mention nearby planets). I scout out the neighborhood. I'm planning where we might best build new space-bridge nodes, once we regain that lost ability. I'm spinning a web of safety around my friends – my family – at home.

I'll be out here for eight to ten quartex, I'd guess. I really can't predict how far I'll stretch my leash, how long I'll go before the pull of home will draw me back.

You see, 'home' is, for me, not the girded and polished steel of Iacon, not the tunnels of the under-planet, not even the faces of my friends.

My home, the place to which I always will return, is the small space where I fit, my back tucked up against Orion's chest, with his arms wrapped around me and his low voice in my ear, whispering to me all the little things I missed while I was out here and away. He is my home; and I am his.

And I'll protect my home with every last electron that orbits in my being.


	11. Plug & Replay

**Plug & Replay**

Without much fuss or ceremony, Optimus returned home after nearly a full vorn spent off-planet. He'd been forging and strengthening the ties between Cybertron and the other known inhabited worlds in the galaxy. There'd been a rather poignant return to Earth, an ambassadorial visit to a skittish Nebulos, a fact-finding trip to Torkulon, and charitable missions to both Paradron and Char. He'd been embraced, shot at, applauded, and sworn at in fifty different languages. He'd been showered with gifts, favors, advances, and several clever, lethal gizmos that had been disguised as handy objects offered to him by the smiling politicians.

Now he was home, and there was only one thing that he wanted.

Elita met him on the landing pad, and he ran into her arms with the alacrity of a lost electron clicking into place around a charged atom.

Without a word, their fingers flew to connect every line and cable they could send out to each other. It was infodump, communion, and catharsis all at once. They were alone – a few discerning bots had seen to that – but Prime would not have delayed this reunion even if the whole of Cybertron looked on.

There was so much to tell; so many hoarded feelings; so many sights and sounds saved up to share with the one other who'd appreciate them. Luckily, via the high-speed connections, it all could be transferred in nanokliks. Prime had only a few moments before he was due at his Command post. But for now, they were enough.

It wasn't a spark-bond. That would come later. But it was a comforting homecoming nonetheless.

"Soon, my love," he promised. "Very soon."

"I'll hold you to that," she said, with a wink.

They parted, thin lines reeling swiftly in; and Optimus Prime strode out through the arched doorway.

* * *

><p>Megatron greeted him with outstretched arms and crooked smile. "Still in one piece, it seems," he said.<p>

"And so is Cybertron," said Prime, taking in the altered view of the swift-rising city from the tower's tall windows. "It looks like you've done well here, Brother."

"I'm glad that you approve... you silly, pompous mech," replied the big Decepticon. He thumped Prime on the back, and spooled a line from his wrist into Prime's. "Here's everything you need to know about the trouble we've all gotten into in your absence," he said with a grin. In less time than it takes to tell it, a vorn's worth of news and memories were downloaded into Prime's mainframe.

"It's good to be home," Optimus said quietly. "I've missed my family."

"It's good to have you back, you lazy scrapheap!" Megatron averred.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **What? Of _course_ both Prime and Elita use the same electron metaphor. They're bondmates; things rub off. (That's my excuse, at least.)


	12. Tune in Next Time

**Tune in Next Time, For Another Exciting Episode of...**

_Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all._

Prime surveyed the glum faces of the other five bots surrounding the polished black table. Elita, Ironhide, Chromia, 'Spark, and Megatron all fiddled with their drinks in awkward silence. It was as if they expected the glowing cubes of fuel to reveal some hidden wisdom for the evening – or explode.

Prime sighed. Once more, he'd failed to factor in the Megatron Effect. By this point, he was so settled in their bond of brotherhood, so used to having the big lug around, that he forgot that others did not feel the same way. It was the old difficulty of wanting all his friends to get along with one another – an impossibility no matter where one hailed from in the universe.

He tried to be sensitive – he understood his fellow Autobots' aversion to their ancient enemy as well as anyone. But sometimes he forgot. After all, it was several vorns now since the Ceasefire and the two leaders' spark-bonding. And some days Prime just plain got tired of pussyfooting around the whole issue.

He hadn't hoped that Chromia would suddenly choose Megatron for a best friend. But it would have been nice if the blue femme could have put aside a little of her bitter resentment.

They'd met for the evening at Spangle's place, The Hub. The plan was that they'd share a few cubes of high-grade, and maybe a story or two. The underlying hope was twofold: to help 'Spark feel more at home with the group, and to give Megatron the chance to spend time with her that he would never request outright, but was always angling for.

They'd chosen a big round booth in one corner, where they could all sit together, avoid being too much the center of attention, and (as per longstanding habit) keep one optic out for trouble as they sipped their fuel. Prime had to admit the place had style – slick black furnishings were lined with blue, green, pink, and orange neon strips along their curved edges; colored lights broke the big room into small circles of different, blending hues; and always there was the thumping undercurrent of music from the dance hall on the roof. The Hub was just far enough out of everyone's comfort zone to put old bots and the newling on pretty much equal footing. Things ought to have been going swimmingly.

_The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men gang aft agley,_a famous human had once said. Prime still wasn't quite sure what to make of that last bit, having never had the time to learn old Scottish dialect. But he could tell the night was pretty far _agley_ right now.

He huffed, and looked across at Ironhide, catching the shorter red mech's eye. His bodyguard gave an eloquent grimace, and shrugged a single shoulder.

Suddenly, Optimus laughed. "You know, Ironhide," he said, "This whole evening is like something out of that TV show we all used to watch on Earth. Remember _As the Kitchen Sinks_?

Now it was Ironhide's turn to grin. "You mean the big meeting of family elders, where they all sit glaring at each other around the table, and make barbed small-talk until someone drops a bombshell?"

"Precisely! Which episode was that in?" Prime asked, still chuckling.

"Ya mean, which one _wasn't_ it in, dontcha Optimus?" Ironhide drawled. "All the plots were the same."

"And yet, somehow, we couldn't stop watching..." Prime's optics dimmed in reminiscence. "Remember when Darla threatened to shoot Sunny, because he'd stolen her father's prize pigeon, only it was really Steve who-"

"I'm pregnant," interrupted Ironhide.

Prime's vocalizer hitched. He blinked. And then he gave the old red mech a predatory grin. "You little hussy!" he thundered. "Who's the father?" His voice sank to a venomous whisper. _"Or do you even know?"_

Ironhide stiffened in affronted self-righteousness. "Of course I do, you horrible old dictator!" He leaned forward, optics narrowing. _"She's _sitting right beside you."

Prime turned to Elita in horror. "Tell me it isn't true!" he gasped, putting one hand to his 'heart' in a melodramatic pose. "Tell me you did not have sexual relations with that... _mech!"_

Elita had a hand over her face. She was shaking her head at the unfathomable antics of mech-kind. But still, she played along. "It's true, Optimus," she said. "He's carrying my child." Flashing a fiery grin, she added with a burst of feigned malice, "And he's so much more of a real mech than you ever could be!"

Prime turned his smoldering gaze slowly back to Ironhide. _"How dare you?"_ he thundered. "I will have your guts for garters!"

Megatron raised a quiet hand. "Not 'guts for garters,' Optimus. That's the wrong tone for this show. They'd say something more like..." He mused in silence for a moment. _"I'll have you up on charges._ Yes. That's what that pompous airhead Druthers was always harping on about."

Ironhide blinked at Megatron in shock.

"What?" demanded Megatron. "It's not like there was anything _better_ on during the daytime! Sheesh!"

"Shush!" said Prime. "You'll ruin the scene!"

Megatron humphed. 'Spark gaped in obvious confusion. Chromia and Elita both looked like they thought the mechs had all gone off the rails of sanity.

Optimus rose, leaned both palms on the table, and glared down at Ironhide. He'd brought all of his powers to bear, and even though the bots were fairly certain he was joking, the in-your-face Prime-Loom(tm) still had its usual effect. Ironhide drew back a little in his chair.

"How dare you." The voice of the Autobot Commander held dire threat in its dark thunder. "I will have you up on charges!"

Their corner of the room went quiet, as other guests began to crane their necks to gawk at them in wonder and concern.

"You'd like to think so, wouldn't you?" said Ironhide, his rough-cut face like granite. "But I've got a hold over the local DA that you never can match." He smirked, crossed an ankle over his knee, and spread his arms expansively. "Face it, Mussolini. There is nothing you can do."

"And what, pray tell, is this _influence_ you claim to have over the judgment of a fine, upstanding officer of the law?" growled Prime.

Ironhide waved a hand as if the question were a buzzing little fly. "Oh... let's just say that my _first_ child bears a striking resemblance to our esteemed Attorney."

"No!" gasped Prime."

"Yes," Ironhide nodded primly.

"You... you_ trollop!"_ Prime choked out.

"She was a Seeker," Ironhide declared. "I simply couldn't help myself."

At this point both mechs lost composure, and dissolved into helpless fits of laughter.

* * *

><p>Feeling more of a newling than ever, RainbowSparkle edged her chair back a few nanometers from the table (where the two red Autobots now had their heads down on crossed forearms, and were pounding their fists against its shiny black surface, chortling in glee). "Can... any of you tell me what in Primacron's domain this... conversation was about?" she asked.<p>

The blue and pink femmes shook their heads. "Earth," Elita explained, as if that single word should make everything clear.

It didn't. "Um," Spark looked askance at Megatron. "Is it even _possible_ for a transformer to become... what was the word? Pregnant?"

"I don't think so, sweetie," Chromia told her soothingly.

Megatron leaned in, and put an arm around her shoulders. "You wanna try it?" he asked with a lascivious, toothy grin.

'Spark slapped him hard, and added a sharp elbow to the side-struts for good measure.

In the sudden, awkward silence, Optimus lifted his head to meet the glaring optics of a trio of affronted femmes.

"Megatron," said Elita with exaggerated patience, "About flirting with girls..."

The Autobot Commander let his head fall _thunk _ back down upon the table. The Megatron Effect had struck again.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Look! A Funny!

This little scene unfolded in my mind one night, and I proceeded to laugh about it for the next three days at least. I'm sure I've mangled the comedy with wordiness. But I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

Note that it's thanks to a suggestion by fellow-author Coraxonyx that Megatron is familiar with _As the Kitchen Sinks._

Inside jokes galore:

– Chromia saying she doesn't think TF's can get pregnant had me in stitches. As it will for anyone who knows her in real life, I hope... (See author TSBP and WiEGoP for the reason why)

– 'Spark elbowing Megs in the side-struts should by rights be akin to a sharp kick to the groin... but since this is my universe, not [author X]'s, he doesn't have Those Kind of Struts.

– And then Bill Clinton's infamous denial sneaked in... mechanized, of course.


	13. Lost

**A/N: **Thanks Chromia, for showing me where this thing failed, and helping me to fix it. Someday, I will learn world-building.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Lost<strong>_

* * *

><p><strong>Personal Diary: 02-1278-Pax Cybertronia<strong>

**-RainbowSparkle-**

I notice a big difference when Optimus Prime is gone. At first, I assumed it had to do with Primely (Primish? What is the right word?) powers – a special aura he had, a calming influence he exuded, or something strange like that. But the longer I stay on as assistant of sorts to Megatron, the more I come to understand that it has little to do with anything Optimus Prime does. It's Megatron's issue. And I'm starting to get really worried about him.

For instance, he hardly ever leaves his office. And when he does, he goes alone. I don't understand it – with his spark, he should be surrounded by close friends and fond acquaintances. He isn't meant to be alone. But he holds himself in tight like there's a heavy razored spring in there that he's afraid to let fly loose.

What's somehow worse, though, is that no one ever comes to try to pry him from his self-made prison. Didn't he have any friends before everything changed? From what little I can glean from the older Autobot femmes, and from Ironhide and the other bots who've kind of taken pity on me (sigh) Megatron has always been like this. But you'd think he would learn. When Prime and Elita are here, they take him out to all kinds of places, and he seems to have fun, though of course he tries to hide it. I've even heard him laugh. But if I try something like that – if I suggest something as simple as going out driving, he growls at me so fearfully that I (coward) back out.

Once, that black and purple Seeker – I think he's called Skywarp – teleported into Megatron's office, grabbed him around the middle, and disappeared in a flash of optic-searing purple light. They were gone for a few joors. When Skywarp (carrying a half-drunk Megatron) reappeared, he winked at me and made rude comments on my chassis. He propped Megatron back in his chair, patted his shoulder like an older brother would, and left the way he came. To this day I don't know what that was about, but I suspect it was some kind of dare, or prank.

I was glad that someone – anyone – had come to yank Big M. out of his hole. But the next time Skywarp came to report on the secret project he's in charge of, Megatron looked like he was about to blow his head off with that heavy cannon on his arm. So no one's ever tried something like that again.

Ratchet comes in sometimes, and he yells at Megatron to pull his head out of his aft. (_How does he get away with it?_) But he (M., not R.) listens to no one.

I'm getting fed-up with all this. I'm worried that when Prime comes back, he'll find his Brother's nothing but a pile of broken parts.

I've got to do something.

-End File Record-

Save/Delete ?

* * *

><p>"A mapping expedition." Megatron repeated 'Spark's suggestion with distaste.<p>

"_Yes,"_ she told him, hands on hips.

"You know," he said, "Most of us have lived here since the Beginning. If some mech doesn't know his way around by now, he doesn't _deserve_ a map." He met 'Spark's flashing gaze, but did not falter. He'd started this day annoyed, and had only progressed from there. "You seemed reasonably intelligent when you took your place here. But if basic navigation's still a problem for you, then I certainly can't help. Go see your makers for an upgrade to your memory-banks."

"Of all the stuck-up, chrome-plated, idiotic mechs..." 'Spark planted both hands on his desk. "The Cybertron you knew is smelted, broken open, bent. And fully half this planet is something _none_ of us has seen before – or let alone explored! And yet, for a full vorn now, you've insisted on rebuilding the old cities and trying to force everything back to what it was. You're spending all your efforts looking outward – you, Prime, even Elita. You're so stuck in the old ways that you don't even see that you're stuck! Not any more. You actually think you're trying something new!"

She flung an arm out. "Megatron, there's a new world to find _right here_, but you're too blind to see it."

He turned away, ignoring her.

She powered up her servos, scared, but resolute. "Are you afraid to look?" she asked in a metallic whisper.

He whirled. "You greasy little _bolt-hole! _How dare you insult me?"

"Someone has got to wake you up," she said, shivering slightly. "If an insult's what it takes, I'll try it."

Megatron's optics darkened, and his fists clenched at his sides. "If you think I'll waste my time crawling around in unmarked tunnels, while the Holy Optimus and his Good Consort Elita are out there doing all the _important_ work, then you are gravely mistaken." He gestured to the door. "You are dismissed. Go find another bot to pester. I have no use for 'gramless femmes who think their lack of computation is everyone else's problem. Learn to find your way around, or learn to shovel slag."

Hope failed. He was sending her away. So she did the unthinkable. "Shovel slag? Let me help you with this scrap then." Wracked by emotions she did not have time to comprehend, RainbowSparkle swept a precisely-stacked tower of datapads off Megatron's black desk. In stony immobility, the big gray mech and thin blue femme watched as the screens cracked and clattered to the floor.

The big Decepticon grabbed 'Spark up by the neck, and threw her across the room against the door. He slammed a fist down on the open/close switch in his desk. "Get out," he hissed, pointing a shaking finger. "Don't come back."

* * *

><p>Fans screaming, Megatron flopped down into his comfortable chair. He stared at the closed door for two full breems. Then slowly, his head dropped to the dark surface of his desk, and his fist began to pound a leaden rhythm. <em>"Orion,"<em> he whispered. _"I hurt her."_

* * *

><p>"Give me your gun."<p>

Megatron looked at him blankly.

Ratchet jerked his outstretched fingers in a gesture that precluded argument. "Give me the cannon now, or I will take it from you." His voice was hard, and cold as iron.

Megatron was taller, broader, stronger, than the white Autobot Medic; but he was also in the wrong, and knew it. And he knew that Ratchet did not make an idle threat. Still, though, it was his fusion cannon. "Will I get it back?" he asked, sounding more plaintive than he'd meant to.

"That depends on you."

Megatron's shoulders slumped. He stared at Ratchet for another nanoklik; then broke the cannon from his arm. He felt naked. "Here," he said harshly. "Take it. Now let me see her."

The Medic planted his feet in the doorway, holding up the long black weapon crosswise to further bar the way. "I don't think so," he replied flatly.

"But... I gave you my gun!"

"Because you obviously don't deserve to carry it."

"You dare-!"

The Autobot silenced him with an upraised hand. "I'll tell her that you came today. But it is up to her to decide whether she will see you. Ever."

Without another word, the Medic turned and closed the door behind him, shutting Megatron out in the empty metal hallway.

* * *

><p><em>I'm sorry.<em>

Two tiny, little words. Three syllables. Six separate phonetic sounds. He'd started wars, cowed enemies, commanded armies with his words. But somehow he could not quite bring himself to speak these two particular ones.

It wasn't this hard with Optimus Prime. He was an equal who had won respect through a lifetime of combat, and through the ultimate knowing of a spark-bond. And for some unexamined reason, he had little difficulty in apologizing to Elita – perhaps because he almost worshiped her, although he never would admit as much to anyone, himself included.

But this RainbowSparkle was a newling – a newling femme with a ridiculous name, created on a whim by (in Megatron's opinion) two of the most doltish mechs Cybertron had ever seen. She had a rocket-pack. Her paint was iridescent. She transformed into a curvy three-wheeled... _thing_ no self-respecting mech would ever have conceived. She was no use in battle. No use in anything of value he could see, except for that uncanny ability to see and interpret the color of any bot's spark. Telepathy was something he was used to – something he gave grudging respect to. But this... whatever-it-was of hers was nothing more than voyeurism. She made him uncomfortable. He could not tell her he was sorry.

But he could tell Prime.

_I hurt her,_ he sent down their spark-bond. _Please, Optimus, help me. I threw her across the room!_

No answer came. He paced his quarters like a Petro-Tiger, cursing his bond-brother's lingering ineptitude with spark-to-spark communication. He wondered if the Prime had gone too far away from him for even the language of souls to reach.

_I hurt her,_ he repeated. _What good am I to anyone, if this is what I do when I don't have a slagging minder?_

* * *

><p>The irony did not escape him. 'Spark had agreed to meet him in a lonely courtyard high up on the side of the Command Tower of Talus – recently renamed Pax Cybertronia. It was the place where he and Prime had often found each other at the end of an especially difficult day, the place they went to decompress, to be plain brothers, rather than Commanders. By habit, Megatron felt himself letting fall the hard veneer he usually wore First he had lost his gun. Now he had lost his shell. He wondered if he had anything much left that he could lose.<p>

"You don't really see me."

"What? Yes I do. You're right there on that bench!" he rejoined, not amused. It was a strange beginning, and it put him on his guard. He had expected railing, belittlement; anything to make him feel guilty about the thing he'd done. (That had always been Starscream's method.)

He snorted. He needed little help in feeling guilt. But 'Spark was speaking, and he roused himself to listen.

"You don't see _me._ You think of me as some new kind of thing – a specialized computer, perhaps, or another gadget you resent because you haven't figured out quite how to work it."

"_What?"_ he repeated.

"I'm not a thing. I'm not a drone. I'm not an object of convenience. I'm a transformer like you – alive, and thinking my own thoughts. I have a name. It's a silly one; believe me I know that by now. But I'd like you to use it. Do you realize that half the time you call me 'Elita' by mistake?"

He hadn't noticed. But he still had no idea what all this had to do with throwing her across his office.

"You think, because I am so new, that I can't understand you. That I can't possibly see the way things are. But Megatron, you're wrong about me. Yes, I am new. Which means I'm not indoctrinated in the old systems. I don't just see the way things are. I see the way they ought to be. In fact I see better than anyone; and you know that quite well." She sank against the backrest, looking spent. "I want you to map out this world, not just for me, but for us all. That's why you're here: to lead us in discovery."

"I'm here on this blasted _cage_ of a planet because Optimus Prime in all his Wisdom doesn't think me fit for all the niceties of interstellar diplomacy." Biting off a round of curses, Megatron threw himself down upon the bench beside her, though he was careful to keep a space between them. His grating voice was harsh with resentment. Because he knew that it was true. He wasn't ready yet; and the civilizations he had depredated were certainly not ready to meet him with any overtures of friendship. He was trapped here as surely as if he'd been chained in shackles. And he hated that more than anything else he'd had to do.

The slate-blue femme looked up at him, and placed a skittish hand upon his arm. "If you cannot travel outward," she said quietly, "Then perhaps you should to look inward. We have to know about the place we stand, before we strike out for the stars."

Suddenly Megatron recalled all the complaining he had done to Optimus back when they first had bonded. There was a lot back then about losing his personal map when he had given up his dreams of conquest. A lot about feeling like he was lost. Perhaps part of his avoidance of global exploration was a fear of what he might find here. Perhaps he liked to be lost. It was such a good excuse.

"You do not want to be the kind of mech who beats up femmes," she said, meeting his gaze. "You don't have the right kind of spark for that. You think all femmes are wonderful, somehow." She shifted uncomfortably, but persisted. "I think I disappoint you; because the better you come to know me, the more of my faults you see. I'm not the perfect angel you imagine femmes to be. I'm not..." Her vocals hitched. "I'm not Elita."

"Elita has her weaknesses..." began Megatron uncertainly.

"Yes, but you accept them in her. I don't know why."

Megatron sighed. "She was the first," he murmured. "The first femme to love me. The _only_ one, I should say; the others all despise me. It was her own choice, and it was not an easy one."

'Spark looked at him then, a long look, but said nothing.

"Think it over," she told him, rising as she did so. "But if you decide to start an exploration of our planet, I want to come in with you. I want to be... your navigator." Without looking back over her shoulder, RainbowSparkle walked across the courtyard, opened the Tower's door, and disappeared from view.


	14. A Chance and Hope

**A/N: This is a Repost of a previously-deleted chapter. **

To say I struggled to write this would be an understatement. And once I finally finished and posted it, I lost all faith in it, and in most of what I have written here. I realized that I needed to completely start over and write a 'real' sequel to Transformation, not just a series of drabblets that have proven so susceptible to wandering. So let this serve as a repeat announcement that everything in this collection is to be read as apocryphal at best, and as complete drivel at worst. I'm going back to try to do better.

That said, I can't quite let this disappear, either. So here you go. Thank you for your patience in in reading this far, and for your faith in me.

Love, Prime

* * *

><p><strong>A Chance and Hope<strong>

"Starscream!" Megatron shouted. "I need you!"

"That's a first." The Seeker materialized in front of him, just out of arm's reach. "Though it's nice hearing you admit it for a change."

Megatron actually forgot to bristle at the jibe. "Wow," he whistled. "That was fast."

The ghost flashed his famous one-sided grin. "You said you _needed_ me," he teased. "How could I possibly refuse?"

"I need to _talk _ to you, not-" Megatron muttered a few highly-descriptive words.

"All right, all right!" Starscream took a step back. "We'll talk. But I'm surprised. I thought I'd be the_ last _mech on your list."

"Prime's gone. Off-planet. I tried, but I can't reach him even spark-to-spark."

Starscream did not respond to this, but his jaw worked a little.

"Elita's gone too."

Starscream waved an impatient hand. He disliked hearing Megatron talk about his adopted family. "Can't you go pester that newling femme you think so much of?"

The words might as well have been a slap, for Megatron swore and fell back a step. "Not possible," he growled.

"What, did you kill her?" Starscream needled, pressing in. Old habits die hard, and the red jet had always known just what to say to provoke his Commander.

Megatron snarled and swung a wild punch, missing his Second, but adding a fine new dent to his already perforated wall. "Shut up," he whispered, leaning heavily against the pockmarked metal. "Shut up, Starscream, for mercy's sake."

The Seeker raised a single sculpted brow. "_Mercy_," he said. "That's a new one." Nevertheless, he did shut up as ordered. Megatron might be a violent, aft-headed glitch; but the gray mech was still _his_ aft-headed glitch. This call out to a somewhat-friendly ghost was proof of that. And Starscream wasn't about to jeopardize the little hold he had on his Commander.

So he sat down on the dented footlocker which had become, without either of them noticing it, his appointed seat. He crossed an ankle over his knee, and waved a mocking hand. "Go on. What's got your cording into such a tangle that you call on me?"

Megatron huffed. He fidgeted. He fiddled with his plating. "Slag, blast, and damn!" he finally exploded. "May the Pit take us! Starscream, you're the only one who's qualified to give me hope. Or condemnation. Take your pick."

"Oh, condemnation, definitely," the Seeker replied flippantly. "What did you do?"

The gray mech would not meet his gaze. "I hurt 'Spark."

Starscream said cruelly, "I'm not surprised. You bully everyone you meet."

Megatron swore, and kicked the corner of his berth. He cursed himself, the Seeker's ghost, Optimus Prime, and Cybertron. But then he stopped, and leaned his head against an inset cupboard. "Slag it, Starscream," he said, surrendering. "I'm tired of being a bully. But I don't know if it is a habit I can change."

Starscream did not bother to sugar-coat his question. "Do you really want to change? Or are you just looking for an excuse to get your fingers tangled in her neural net?"

"Slag off!" Megatron shouted. "Of course I want to change! You think I _like_ hurting my friends?"

Starscream snorted. "You seemed to enjoy hurting me."

Megatron turned, and moved stiffly to sit down upon his berth. He gripped its edge, his fingers tightening enough to warp the dull metal. "I'm not the mech I was then," he said through clenched jaws.

"Yeah. _Sure_ you're not." The Seeker hunched, and looked away. For one agonizing moment he imagined Megatron entwined with that new interloping femme, and felt the ancient jealousy twist its jagged blade into his gut. He hissed a breath out through his teeth. "Good luck convincing _her_ of that," he muttered bitterly. "You've never been a poster-mech for self-control."

"That's not true, and you slagging know it!" Megatron retorted. "I held back more than any of you scrapheaps ever understood. But somehow it's all gone straight to the Pit."

"You broke your happy little world. Boo-hoo."

"I didn't break anything!"

Starscream gave him a level look.

"Look, it's not like I _meant_ any of this slag to happen, ok?"

Megatron chuffed, and surged up to his feet. "They took _everything_ from me. Do you understand that? They dropped me here and left me with nothing better to do than babysit a couple thousand half-grammed bots too stupid to think for themselves. They left me, Starscream, while they went gallivanting off into the ether, chasing dreams of trade routes and alliance. That kind of thing is what _I'm_ good at, Primusdammit!

"_...And exploitation and extermination,"_ added Starscream in an undertone.

Megatron whirled. "Shut the frag up, and _listen_ for two kliks, is that too hard?"

Starscream shrugged, but did not say what he was thinking. It _was_ hard. Very. But he doubted the gray mech would care.

"I've never been like Optimus – forever grubbing down into the bowels of our planet, hunting secrets. I expect others to do that kind digging for me, slag it," Megatron grumbled. "Instead, I'm left here on this rotten lump of pig-iron, with _nothing_ interesting to do..." He scrubbed at the back of his head, restless and itching. "...And there is 'Spark. Always watching. Always listening. Always learning. The one femme here who would not gladly send me to the Smelter. But she..." He looked askance at the red jet. "She wanted me to go crawling in dark little tunnels, just so we could map out all this crazy, fragged-up world. She got quite persistent. Demanding. But no one can ask me to go back to that! No one. I..." He broke off, his vents flaring. "I threw her across the room."

"You really like her, don't you?" Starscream asked. The words tasted of bile in his throat.

Megatron turned to give some acidic reply. But then he stopped, and looked down at his Second with unwonted gentleness. "I do," he said. "Is it that obvious?"

"To every bot with more than half a kilobyte of RAM it is," said Starscream bitterly.

"You needn't worry," Megatron declared, matching the Seeker's tone. "I'm not capable of gentleness. I don't dare make a move now."

"Nonsense!" said Starscream with a brightness like sharp shards of broken glass. "You've been forgiven for millennia of genocide, a hundred-thousand war-crimes, institutional torture, and for being an unfeeling piece of Smelter-loving slag. I expect that RainbowSparkle will come running back into your arms at any minute now. I should just go, and leave you to it!" He stood up, and threw a razor-sharp salute.

"_But will I just hurt her again?" _Now Megatron was practically shouting. He knew he was pushing Starscream too far. But still, he grabbed him by the shoulders, servos screaming as he fought the urge to_ shake_ an answer from the red Seeker. "You have to tell me, Starscream. You're the only one who can. Can I be anything besides a mindless, worthless bully?"

"_I DON'T KNOW!"_ the flier screamed. He stared at Megatron, his vents flared and his cooling fans shrieking with effort. "I don't know anything any more, don't you see that? You think I can process information while you're rambling to me about your latest crush? I _hate_ that slagging femme. _I hate her,_ Megatron!"

Slowly, the gray mech's shoulders slumped.

"Starscream."

The unexpected kindness in the old mech's grating voice froze the miserable Seeker's spark-pulse for an instant.

"Starscream."

The red jet turned his head away as Megatron drew him in close. "Do you have any idea what I would give...?" he asked bitterly.

Megatron nodded. "Probably more now than ever, mechling," he admitted.

They stood together for some moments, the larger mech almost supporting the quivering jet. Starscream stood stiff, his fingers clenching and unclenching into fists of impotent outrage and longing.

"You came, and you listened," the gray mech whispered. "Thank you, Starscream. I know it must not have been easy."

"You're such a fragging aft."

"I know. Trust me, I know."

The Seeker's vocals hitched. "I wish I could stop watching," he said, voice pinched.

"I don't blame you." Megatron sighed. "But I would miss you. You've been at my right hand – and aiming daggers at my back – almost from the beginning. There's no one who can take your place, Starscream."

The Seeker snorted. "_That's_ a lie."

"It's true," said Megatron. "Take it from the master Decepticon," he added dryly.

There was a pause. Then a tight whisper. _"I don't want to see you with her." _

"I know, mechling." Megatron let out a heavy sigh. "But there's little chance of that. 'Spark would be a fool to trust me within five paces of her after what I did. She's certainly not going to let me get close enough to... to..." he broke off awkwardly, and shrugged a shoulder. "Well. You know."

Starscream did know. His knowledge wasn't, like Megatron's, gleaned from the memories of a bond-brother. Instead it was the product of eons of perverted study of the effects of certain stimulants upon his fellow soldiers. He could have – and gladly would have – made his Commander squeal with pleasure. "I could..." he faltered. "If you've given up on her, could I-?"

Megatron let out a long hiss of cydraulic pressure. "It is tempting," he admitted. "And Primus knows I owe you one."

Starscream drew back. "You owe me," he said roughly, "But your debt is payable in torn limbs and sundered spark. Not in anything... nice."

Megatron chuffed in sardonic agreement. "Practice then? In case I ever, Primus-willing, get the chance to-"

Starscream swore, and twisted violently out of Megatron's arms. "Frag you," he said, and meant it. He wanted. Oh how desperately he wanted. For uncounted evorns he had wanted. But he still had some tattered pride left. "I'm not anyone's 'practice,'" he hissed through jaws so tightly clamped that he could barely form the words.

Megatron lurched back as if he'd been burned by hot iron. "I didn't mean-"

"Yes you did," Starscream said remorselessly. "But I'm not some sort of stand-in pleasure drone. I'm not just gears and levers, slag it! I have a soul!"

"I know," said Megatron quietly. He pointed one hesitant finger at the Seeker's glassed-in chest. "I've seen it."

Starscream just glared at him.

The gray Commander stared at his seething, dead Second, and vented a long, slow sigh. "I know who you are, Starscream." He met the red jet's hard glare. "I'm not going to try to sell you another lie."

"Then tell the truth," Starscream whispered. His voice was harsh, a labored tearing from his throat.

"Fine." Megatron spoke crisply. "Do I want it? Oh slag yeah. Would I enjoy a custom interface with you?" He gave a snort. "From what I know of you, I bet I'd not only enjoy it, but I'd wear a dopey grin and walk unsteadily for the next three orns afterwards. And hey, I've been itching to try out a few things I've gleaned from Prime. So yeah, I slagging want to. But..."

"...But it would not be me that you were thinking of," the Seeker finished harshly.

Megatron stopped, and set his jaw. Then, "No," he said. "It wouldn't."

"A lie."

The gray mech shrugged. "A lie."

Starscream stood frozen, tight-wound like an overburdened spring. "I'd like to withdraw the offer, then, oh Glorious Leader," he said at last, stiffly.

Megatron shook his head. He felt he had somehow betrayed his Second, let him down in some fundamental way.

He flapped a hand, and paced in restless misery. "I want to save something for 'Spark. You understand that, don't you?" he pleaded. "I know I blew it. But I can't shake this one stubborn shred of slag-damned _hope_. Unmaker knows I'm fragged and double-fragged. I'm nothing but a burned-out, tarnished piston. But I have this thing... this one thing that has never been mangled, or misused, or even bent. And that's the one thing I can give her that's as untouched by sewage-waste as she is..." Megatron hobbled to a stop, still looking at his Second. "I... I want 'Spark," he said. "I choose her."

"You love her," Starscream said dully.

"I... suppose I do."

"It's not fair."

"No. It isn't." Megatron stopped, and looked at the red Seeker with a newly-sharpened gaze. "But fair or not, you came to me tonight. You came and you listened."

"Because I'm a sick, masochistic glitch."

Megatron smiled. "Because you're Starscream."

"Yup. It's what I do..."

The gray mech laughed. "What would I do without you?" he asked warmly.

"Frag yourself."

"Quite possibly," said Megatron, in earnest. He looked hard at the ghost-Seeker, and pursed his lips in thought. There were no words for what he was referring to, so he found himself using old-fashioned, silly ones. "No dalliance. No hanky-panky. No shrieks of bliss in showering sparks of overloaded circuitry... _mostly because that would be really creepy,_" he added to himself. "But Starscream..." he walked over to the red jet, and once again put a hand upon his shoulder. "Will you stay?" He shifted, suddenly embarrassed. "Will you stay through this charge-cycle, and... and share my berth?"

"_...Why?"_ Starscream did not try to dilute the sharp acid in the word.

"Because it's just..." Megatron floundered. "I don't know! It's just... nice..." He wondered if Starscream had been spying on him the few times he had sneaked into Prime's quarters and hunkered in behind the old Autobot, looking for some undefinable comfort in the red mech's silent, still presence. He wondered if the Seeker knew how much it calmed the scalding fires in his spark, simply to listen to the even rhythms of his bondmate's systems slowly idling. He wondered if the red jet guessed how much it meant to Megatron to have someone he could hold.

"All right!" The ghost-mech's voice cut through his thoughts. "Sheesh, Great Leader. You know, I can almost see steam rising out of your processor. Some free advice: You're over-thinking." He clumped over to the gray mech's narrow berth, and raised an eyebrow. "No hanky-panky. Fine. But just exactly _how_ do we do this?"

Megatron stared at him blankly. Then he realized what the Seeker meant, and laughed.

Transformers were not built with lying down in mind. They recharged for a few hours every week or so, on flat metallic berths. It was a spartan system. Shutdown was a necessary loss of time, and nothing more; except to bots like Prime and Elita, who had perfected the art of shared recharge... and Megatron, who was learning. But by the merest chance all three bots in the family had fairly squared-off, blocky forms. Starscream, on the other hand, had big triangular wings sticking out beyond his shoulders. There was no way he could turn on his side and tuck in against Megatron's chest, like the gray mech had blithely imagined. He laughed again, harder this time.

"Unmaker's beard!" he gasped. "You know, I bet you'd have found a hundred berth-mates if those slagging giant wings weren't always getting in the way! How _are_ we going to do this?"

Megatron peered at Starscream, then down at himself, then at the bunk, taking visual measurements. Then he _humphed,_ and went to lie down upon the plain, unpainted surface. "Come on," he said, and held his arms out.

In the end, they settled on an arrangement in which Starscream lay almost face-down along Megatron's left side, with his head upon the gray mech's shoulder, and his arm and leg propped up on the the Decepticon Commander's body so as not to crack his glassed-in cockpit. Megatron held him in with the arm that the red Seeker was mostly lying on; and sometimes, when he forgot to think about it, he ran that thumb up and down against the Seeker's lower back.

Starscream was surprised by how still the old warrior was: how, well, _peaceful._ He'd spent millions of years by Megatron's side – though never, alas, this close – and there had always, always been an undercurrent of threat. Especially to him. So Starscream lay and listened in some apprehension to the quiet echoing of ducts and servos slowing down all through the big gray frame. But despite all the lessons of history, the sound was soporific. Gradually, he let his habitual guard slip lower and lower, until his optic array shut down and all he took in were the soft sounds of Megatron lying at rest.

Megatron, for his part, was more alert. He was thinking. He'd spent millions of years loving and hating Starscream – millions of years pounding dents into his body and his soul, out of fear and resentment. Yet here he was, holding the red jet as a shield against the tides of madness. He reached across, and wrapped a hand around the other mech's black helm. Who'd have thought it? He was grateful – deeply grateful – to have Starscream here in his arms. He hoped the Seeker was as fulfilled by this togetherness as he was.

Starscream sank into his own body, relishing every moment of quiet communion, every gentle touch. But the best part of all this was, he did not feel like he was stealing. He'd long been adept at reading Megatron's most secret desires; and he could tell that the old mech was glad to have him here, glad to have someone he could hold, who knew his foibles and looked past them – someone before whom he did not have the need to hide.

Yes, the red jet would have given up his wings to have Megatron take him for a lover. But the fact was, he was dead. So wings or not, he supposed that the point was moot. So the red jet just hooked his fingers firmly in at the edge of Megatron's chestplate – to keep them still, as much as for security – and listened in contentment as his Leader's systems slowed. He smiled a little when the big Decepticon laid a hand briefly against his cheek. And he held to his soul like a bright treasure the few words of ancient Cybertronian that the old bot whispered to him just before he shut down completely.

* * *

><p>The persistent beeping of the charge-end signal pulled Megatron up out of shut-down, and he rose from his berth with a sharp sense of loss. Yet he was better than he had been when he'd entered this small room a few joors earlier. He felt a little more balanced, more equipped to face the ever-deadly-boring tasks the day would bring.<p>

He sent a glance out through the window, up into the dawn sky where Starscream loved to loop-the-loop and barrel-roll. The Seeker was an ill fit. He had wings and angles (and a personality) that made him difficult to hold on to. But Megatron was grateful that his arms had not been empty, even so. The hollow ache that plagued him was assuaged somewhat.

He pursed his lips. It seemed that he would never be quite sane until he had a constant lifemate to fit into the empty space that had been left when he'd renounced his dreams of universal conquest. He needed a lover with whom he could seek out and find new and better dreams.

He thought of 'Spark, and shook his head. He hadn't hit Starscream all night; and that had to count for something. But there was still no guarantee that she would ever trust him – or that he would ever trust himself – again. He wondered, for the thousandth time, if he was just fooling himself to think that he could change.

He scrubbed a hand across his face, trying to wipe away the doubts that dragged at him. He stopped, perplexed, and looked more closely at the palm of his right hand.

Burned into the palm – and still smoking, Megatron realized in shock – was a single hieroglyph of the old pictographic language. It was not one Megatron had found much use for in the bad old days. He blinked to refresh the image, but the mark remained.

"_Hope,"_ he mouthed silently. His vocalizer clicked and jammed.

With a finger, he traced the welded lines of the elegant glyph. He'd asked Starscream to give him hope. And the ghost Seeker had welded it into his hand – the same hand he had used to throw 'Spark across the room. He bowed his head, and closed his hand into a fist around the still-warm mark. He would never know the lengths to which Starscream had gone in order to give him this tangible sign – to leave it for him out here in the living world.

"Thank you, Starscream," he whispered, "For- for everything."

Then with a renewed spring in his step, Megatron strode out of his room to meet the day. _Um, 'Spark?_ he commed. _Meet me in my office, please. I'm starting the mapping project, which means that we've got a lot of work ahead of us._

* * *

><p><em>- The title of this chapter comes from A Christmas Carol, when Marley visits Scrooge to offer him just that. I thought it was appropriate.<em>


	15. Evolution Outtakes

**Prime & Megs Outtakes**

_**A/N: **Here are a bunch of little fuzzy bits that I either rewrote substantially, or culled out of the final version of "Evolution." But they're still kinda neat. So here they are, like orphaned children, bunched all together at your door, raising their hands for just a little bit of kindness._

_(What? I never claimed to be free from melodrama! These excerpts certainly are full of it.)_

o0o0o

* * *

><p>"Prime!"<p>

There was no answer.

Megatron pounded a fist on the door. "Come out of there! Primes don't have time to pout!"

A voice inside proclaimed, "I'm no Prime, Megatron. Not any more."

Just barely, the Decepticon refrained from kicking in the door. He cycled three slow intakes, and counted to eleven. Then through his teeth, he said, "Let me in, Prime. I'm asking nicely."

The door slid up. Barring the entry with his arms, Optimus confronted his former assailant nose-to-nose. "I... am not... a Prime," he said slowly and distinctly, "So stop pretending that I am!" His usually-kind features twisted. "Or is it just that you can't stand being bonded to a bot who's something less?"

Megatron reared back as if he had been slapped. Then with a feral growl, he grabbed Optimus by the scruff of his redoubted neck, and shook him. "Are you trying to upset me?" he shouted. "Bad idea, Prime."

"I'm trying," the red Autobot said tersely, "To be realistic. One of us has to be." Well-practiced, he broke free of his one-time enemy's grip. "Now that the Matrix is destroyed, I've got no more right to lead our people than-" he flapped a hand, "Than Wheelie!" (The small, orange newling had come online just before the Cataclysm, and was driving everyone bonkers with his insistence on rhyming)

"Oh no you don't," Megatron jabbed a finger at the tall red-and-blue Autobot. "Asking Primus to reconcile with Unicron was your Pit-spawned idea. You don't get to run off and leave us, now that things haven't turned out like you and Elita hoped."

"And what were you, furniture?" Prime shot acidly. "I seem to recall your being present at the Heart of Primus, when the idea was first broached. In fact, I've got a sound-file stored of you giving your consent..."

"Unwillingly!" Megatron fired back. He sounded petulant, but didn't care. "I tried to talk sense into you and Elita. But no. I was outvoted. And look where it's gotten us!" He pointed out the window, where the lifeless surface of the corpse of Cybertron filled up three quarters of the view. "You need to step up and be the Prime we need now, Optimus. You made the problem. Fix it. I don't care how you fix it. But this hiding in a corner has to stop."

"And what exactly would you have me do?" Optimus threw his arms wide and stalked away, restless in his too-small chamber. "I can't call up a planetary resurrection, Megatron. And I don't have a map in my subspace that leads to some idyllic paradise flowing with purest energon. I just can't do it, Megs!" His voice cracked with unwonted desperation. "Just leave me the slag alone!" He turned his back on the big gray Decepticon, to stare unseeing out the room's one high window.

On the rare occasions when Prime really lost it, Megatron became paradoxically cool. He stood silent, cold, his metal plating clicking as the fires of his engines turned to ice. His face showed nothing; it was as aloof as the airless, friendless expanse outside their small ship's hull.

After a moment, he came up behind the Autobot, and turned his bond-brother firmly to face him. "Listen to me, Orion Pax out of old Iacon on Cybertron-that-was. I don't give one black hunk of slag what you think of yourself. Because I slagging know you." He leaned forward till their helms were touching, but there was no warmth of fellowship in the gesture. "That sparkly crystal you had in your chest was nothing but a meddling short-circuit." The Decepticon thwacked a derisive knuckle against Prime's too, too hollow chest. "It isn't what's in here that matters," Megatron rasped. "It's what's in you, you stupid, stupid, stupid slagging glitch. And if there's truly nothing there now, then you're not the mech I always thought you were."

Without a single backward glance, the big Decepticon turned on his heel, and marched out of Prime's chamber.

Optimus... blinked.

He went into the corridor and called after his bond-brother.

But Megatron had fled.

o0o0o

* * *

><p>"We don't need you to have the fragging Matrix," Megatron explained. "We just need you to be, well... you."<p>

Optimus dropped his gaze. "I need the Matrix," he whispered, ashamed.

"I know you think you do..."

"Just like you think you understand?" Optimus hit his Brother with a flat, humorless stare.

"Then make me understand," Megatron suggested.

Optimus looked away. "What if I pushed him too far?" he asked, barely audibly.

"Him?" Megatron was confused; this had nothing to do with the Matrix.

"Perhaps I should have said them."

"Ah. Primus and Unicron." Megatron suppressed a snort. "I've been wondering the same thing myself, Brother of mine."

Optimus turned wide optics to the big Decepticon. "What if it's not just me who's been cast off?" he asked. "What if we're all forsaken? That is my greatest fear. That's the one bungle I can't find any way to mend."

Megatron grunted, comprehending. But he shrugged. "So what if we've been damned and left to rot? That doesn't mean you should give up on us."

Prime flinched. That point had stung. But he rallied, "Our people deserve a better leader than Orion Pax! Especially now."

"A better leader?" Megatron shot his bond-brother a knowing look. "Like who, pray tell?"

But Optimus was unable or unwilling to come up with a replacement for himself.

o0o0o

* * *

><p>They were sitting now in silence, side-by-side on Prime's berth. (It was the only piece of furniture in the spartan quarters he had been allocated on the command shuttle.) Megatron swung a restless foot; and both bots were startled by a tinkling, metallic scrape.<p>

The gray mech bent to retrieve a small, dully glinting object from the floor. "Huh," he commented, surprised.

Megatron ran his thumb across the grooves in the palm-sized slab of dirty silver in his hand. It was one-of-a-kind. He held it out so that it was in Prime's eyeline as well as his. "Lose this?" he demanded. "Or did you throw it in your fit of pique?"

Prime reached to touch the object, but instead the gray mech took hold of his hand, placed the Symbol of Unity into it, and bent the dark blue fingers tightly around the rough metal. "I put a lot of effort into making this," Megatron said dryly. "I expected you to take better care of it."

The metal fragment from the floor had once been Prime's famous faceplate. Cut into the shape of combined Autobot and Decepticon brands, it now hung from an old chain - something the gray Pit-Lord had dug up out of his dark past (its bent links were smeared with oil and flecked with many colors of old paint). He'd given it to Prime, that day when they'd declared the Ceasefire permanent. Megatron had meant for his new bond-brother to wear the sign around his neck, as he had worn a badge so long ago in the arenas. But Optimus felt awkward bearing such an ostentatious thing upon his chest. So he'd usually carried it in his subspace, getting it out only for ceremonial occasions. In time, he'd almost forgotten about the gift. Until tonight.

With more force than was strictly necessary, Megatron shoved the chain over the old Autobot's head. He balled a fist, and whanged the sigil solidly against the red chestplates. "Wear it," he ordered. "You made it."

"You made it," Prime protested.

"But you made it possible," said Megatron flatly. "We'd still be at war if it weren't for your obsessive, simple-minded quest for peace. Don't insult me by trying to deny it."

Prime shrugged. "I do my best..."

"Sometimes, that's all that's needed." The Decepticon raised his chin in triumph, certain he'd scored a point.

Prime gave a sudden, sidelong smirk. "Great pep-talk, Megs. Well done. But do you actually believe any of it?"

Megatron turned dark optics to his Brother. "Do you want me to admit I'm lying?" he asked warily.

Optimus fiddled for a minute with the symbol on his chest. Then quietly, he sighed, "Lies might just have to be enough."

Megatron, clapped him heartily on the back. "That's the spirit!" he said, bright with false cheer. "We'll make an honorary Decepticon of you yet." He rose up from the makeshift bench. "Now I'd better go do some Mighty Megatron-ing, before Shockwave or somebody decides he can do this job better than I can."

"Wait." Prime's hand shot out and detained his bond-brother. "What about you, my fiery old nemesis?" Kind blue optics met fast-dimming red ones. "How are you holding up?"

Megatron froze, and turned a brittle, toothy smile to his bond-brother. "Splendid," he replied. "Since you ask. Just peachy."

Optimus rose as well. "Are you still in this with me?" he asked gravely.

Megatron huffed a massive gust of super-heated air. "I suppose so," he said heavily. "After all, if not you, whom else should I go to?"

Optimus wrapped an arm around the big Decepticon, and drew him close, "Sounds like you need a few lies of your own, my Brother," he said quietly. He looped the chain around the other's neck, drawing them tight together. "A lie for a lie?" he suggested.

"What else have we got?" asked Megatron bleakly.

o0o0o

* * *

><p>"Megatron, are you all right?"<p>

The gray mech bared his teeth in a terrible, mocking rictus of a smile. "Oh, I'm just peachy, Optimus. Have a nice trip."

"I'm not going anywhere that I know of."

Megatron snorted richly. "You can start by getting out of my quarters. I'm due for a recharge." He dropped onto his berth and rolled into a ball, his back to his bond-brother.

But Optimus remained. "I don't plan on retreating, my old nemesis," he said.

"Yes you do." Megatron spoke impatiently, as to an under-programmed newling. "I knew it when I saw you hiding in your room like a slag-licking coward. You're abandoning us. You intend to disappear."

"Actually, I don't."

"Primus _damn_ it, Prime!" Megatron at last uncoiled from his huddle to glare at his Autobot Brother. "I'm a Decepticon! Don't lie to me! Not now."

With more sense of purpose than he'd felt in several quartex, Optimus shut the door behind him. Crossed the room in three long strides. Climbed up beside Megatron in one practiced movement. And then trapped the big gray mech in a circle of tight-drawn limbs.

"I asked the Medics once why they could not save Dion," he whispered. "And they told me that Elita and I weren't supposed to live. They told me we were an anomaly, a miracle; and to be grateful. They said that by the time they found us, there was little they could save except our sparks. They told me how they built us new frames from scrap out of emergency supplies, and covered up the welds with shiny paint. Sometimes my processor still glitches, and I get neural twinges from the stump of my leg grinding against the ground; the numbness seeping up my arm as I fight not to lose hold of Elita; the slow drip of inmost energon trailing from my rattling chest..." He hunkered in to whisper. "I have been shot, dismembered, reprogrammed, and sent through a faulty space-bridge into a dimension that does not even exist. But I'm still here, Megatron. I do not disappear. I'm Orion-slagging-Pax. And I do not leave anyone behind."

o0o0o

* * *

><p>Megatron lay with his head against Prime's chest, listening to the pulse of his bond-brother's quiet spark. The rhythm was as peaceful and hypnotic as always - unchanged, though Optimus might protest otherwise.<p>

Over the thousand-thousand vorns that they'd been adversaries - and only slightly more so now that they were bonded - Prime's sparkbeat had served as the metronomic baseline to the symphony of chaos within Megatron's red spark. This was his home: this plodding pulse beneath much-marred chestplates, on which most of the criss-crossed scars were of his own making. He listened; sinking down into the steadfast beat. It was like falling into a peaceful cocoon of deep blue light. For the first time since the Cataclysm, the fear stuttering in his fiery heart abated, just a little.

* * *

><p>Optimus let his Brother's weight anchor him to the ground - or at least to this berth in a small, drifting spacecraft. Earlier he'd felt flimsy, untethered, flung wide into an unknown and unwelcoming universe. But now Megatron's mass forced him to recognize his own structural integrity: the strength of his unbending armor; the power of his servos; the endurance of his spirit. The old gray mech had always (for better or worse) evoked hitherto-unguessed heights of courage from the Autobot - often to surprise the both of them. And this day was no different.<p>

He smiled a little as he hearkened to the wild, careening drumbeat of the gray mech's spark, less heard than felt throughout his frame. Optimus Prime had always been the kind of bot who persevered through any obstacle. Like his spark-beat, he marched. But Megatron had shown him how to dance.

Optimus stroked his fingers absently over the other mech's now-unhelmeted crest, inspecting all its joints and hinges as old habits dictated. (It was an old joke of Elita's that Optimus showed love by testing rivets.) His spark warmed, and he thought again how lucky he was to have Megatron for a Brother. It was so nice to be the rescued one, instead of the rescuer, every once in a while.

Slowly his mind went quiet. He began to hear the the clattering of feet along distant, too-small corridors; the muffled murmur of faraway voices; and at last even the subtle rumble of the ship's idling engines. All of these blended with the point and counterpoint of their two sparkbeats. He smiled. Maybe, just maybe, things would all turn out OK.

"Megs..." he began.

"Don't say it," warned the big Decepticon.

Optimus rolled his optics. "Mega_tron_," he amended.

"Not that. The other thing. What you were going to say. Don't. It's too sissy for us."

The red mech sighed. He cast about for an acceptable alternative to the simple affirmation of his love. But there was none. So in the end he settled for, "Thanks for believing in me, glitch-head."


End file.
